


Supernatural Busters

by caliowl, NightFoliage



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Alternate Universe, Codependency, Comedy, First Meetings, Horror, Incest, M/M, Mad Scientists, Major Character Injury, Monster Hunters, Mystery Trio, Pseudoscience, Stan and Ford never separated, Stancest - Freeform, Twincest, Universe Alteration, and with swearing, depictions of violence, get-together, ghost busters, implied animal death, post-college, similar vein to GF but a bit darker, they're anomaly chasers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-22
Updated: 2020-03-22
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:15:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23252323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caliowl/pseuds/caliowl, https://archiveofourown.org/users/NightFoliage/pseuds/NightFoliage
Summary: Fiddleford McGucket is a brilliant inventor who has recently graduated from BackUps More with several degrees under his belt and has gained the audience of several high-profile investors in Silicon Valley, California. This is Fiddleford’s chance to make a name for himself and he’s ready to make his name known.Unfortunately, strange incidents keep happening around him. Fiddleford would wave it all off, but when he’s almost killed by the ghost of a former classmate he can’t keep his head in the sand any longer.He’s only saved by the timely arrival of two identical, rugged and handsome supernatural hunters.
Relationships: Fiddleford H. McGucket & Ford Pines, Fiddleford H. McGucket & Stan Pines, Ford Pines/Stan Pines
Comments: 11
Kudos: 44





	Supernatural Busters

**Author's Note:**

> For the tumblr 2018 @a-stancest-halloween prompts  
> (Haha, yeah, this fic took awhile to finish.)
> 
> Prompts: Monster hunting, Ghostbusters, maybe Mad Scientist

Fiddleford feels as if he’s being watched. The streets are crowded and he’s surrounded on all sides by distracted, harried faces. They rush past him in droves, pushing past him, not even registering his presence. Even so, it feels like there are eyes glued on him. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s not dressed like all the other Silicon Valley business goers, his unusual dress marks him as a tourist, but it wouldn’t explain the chill he gets every so often. 

When he reaches his hotel room, it’s a relief to finally be alone.

Fiddleford flicks on all the lights, chasing away the shadows and starts to look over his calculations. What he should be doing is going to sleep. It would be best to be well-rested for his presentation tomorrow for the investors. He only has this one chance to impress the money men in Silicon Valley with his ideas. 

The thought makes his shiver. (Why has he been so cold lately?) It’s a lot of pressure and it’s going to always be like this with each new invention until Fiddleford can make a name for himself. The road ahead of him is daunting and it almost makes Fiddleford think he’s not cut out for life here, but doggone it he has something to share with the world and nothing, not even a bad feeling, is going to stop him. 

Nothing, that is, aside from his latest calculation results, which are apparently doing their level best to deter him.

Fiddleford frowns down at the numbers generated on the small screen sitting on his desk. They are off.  _ Way _ off. The kind of off that would have his grandmother shaking her head soberly,  _ tsk _ ing at their poor performance as she once did at his second grade square-dancing competition. As Granny McGucket used to say, “I may not know much in this life, but I know this: uncoordinated children do not a square make.”

...Not to say that Fiddleford himself knows much about the squareness of a dance and how it was affected by easily distracted children, but he  _ does _ know numbers. Numbers are predictable if the calculations are sound and his calculations  _ are _ sound.

Or, at least, he thinks they are.

He blows out a frustrated breath and drags his hand roughly through his hair as he ponders the latest results. They don’t make any sense! He’d run through the numbers over and over the last several weeks in preparation for the big presentation he planned to give. The equations had returned the same numbers, over and over, until he had them memorized to the 30th decimal. And these current results couldn’t match those numbers even if they tried! 

Just what in the blue blazes is going on?

With an irritated, firm swipe of an arm he clears the desk’s surface of its contents and slams several fresh, lined papers down in their stead. This situation calls for extreme calculating measures.

The next half hour is a blur of hastily scribbled numbers. His perception of the world narrowed to the papers on his desk and the steady scratching of graphite on wood pulp. The mathematical process was certainly longer when unaided by his handy calculator, but Fiddleford didn’t mind. It brought him back to the days when he was just a little shaver, completing problems in his math textbook at his leisure in the school library during lunch. In the silent hotel room with its slightly musty scent and old wooden desk, he could almost be tricked into believing he was back there, tucked safely behind the walls of massive bookcases.

He winds down to the solution and writes the number to the 30th decimal, finishing off the last digit with a little flourish. It’s just as it was meant to be, as it had been written a multitude of times on various writing surfaces in a myriad of writing implements. But  _ not _ as it is on the screen of his calculator.

The furrow in Fiddleford’s brow grows deeper as he scours the pages, looking intently for any errors. He taps his pencil on the table idly as he works, an old habit he’d picked up from a favorite science teacher he’d had in high school who claimed it provided an outlet for any extraneous energy not devoted to problem-solving. Fiddleford wonders now if there was anything to that idea, as he becomes aware of the tapping growing faster and louder the more times he scans over the pages and fails to detect an error.

Heaving an irritated sigh, Fiddleford sets his pencil down on the desktop as he brings both hands up to scrub at his face. The action helps invigorate his tired mind somewhat, and he tries to step back and look at the problem from a different angle. Because really, there hadn’t been a problem up until just a little while ago. The numbers had been run and re-run multiple times, in various ways, and always seemed to match up. The only time things seem to go wrong was just this recently, when he used his calculator.

He pauses, the germ of an idea beginning to take hold in his mind. He’d been using this calculator, Ol’ Reliable, since high school. It wasn’t unheard of for calculator chips to degrade over time. It was also one of the few variables left in the equation that needed testing.

Fiddleford slides his gaze over to take in his old friend, lingering on the spidery crack in the bottom right sustained in a heated debate club meeting and the old tape used to secure the broken back panel that covered the batteries. It  _ had _ been some time since he checked up on the little guy…

“Alright, lil’ feller. Lessee if you’re firin’ on all cylinders tonight,” he mutters as he starts typing in some numbers to run an impromptu diagnostic. 370 times 3 was 1110, 370 times 6 was 2220, 370 times 9 was-

His eyebrows jump to his hairline as he takes in the result: 3333. “Oh dear.” Fiddleford swallows and runs another simple multiplication just to be sure, and groans at the answer he receives. Wrong. They are all starting to come back wrong.

“Looks like you’re slippin’ digits, old friend. Has it really been that long already? Feels like only a few years ago we were completin’ math tests with 30 minutes to spare…” He gently turns off the device and passes his thumb over the screen gently a few times in an effort to wipe off any unseemly smudges. “You rest up. Lord knows you’ve earned it.” He sets the calculator down gently and lightly pats the keys, as others would pat the head of a tired, loyal dog. “After all’a this’s over I’ll see about fixin’ ya up. I’ll have you calculatin’ faster’n a jackrabbit on a date in no time.”

Mystery finally solved to his satisfaction, Fiddleford feels the weight of the day’s efforts settle on his shoulders and yawns so large that his jaw cracks with the size of it. He drags himself around his little hotel room, trying to assemble his invention and presentation materials into a somewhat organized group on top of the desk. Only once he’s certain he’d gathered up all the necessary materials, does he get ready for bed.

A few minutes in the bathroom and a pair of pajamas later, Fiddleford settles into his rented bed and runs his presentation checklist several times through his mind as he attempts to fluff a nearly fluffless hotel pillow. Invention - check, handouts - check, presentation board - check, tools - check, alarm…

He reaches for the clock on the nightstand and begins setting it for an early wake up at 7:30am. Then he sets his watch. After double and triple-checking his work, he smiles triumphantly. He’s all set for his presentation tomorrow. Everything is working as it should and now all he needs to do is wake up, get ready, and make his way to the office. Easy as pie.

As Fiddleford settles in for the night, he looks over at his invention one last time and smiles. This one is a winner for sure, and no matter what’s to come tomorrow, nothing could ruin his day.

\-----

The next morning, Fiddleford wakes up slowly. He’s warm and comfortable in bed, except for the sunbeam that’s directly in his eyes. It must have been what woke him up. How odd, he wouldn’t have expected it to be so bright before 7:30 in the morning.

He turns to face the clock and squints in an attempt to focus his vision so he could read the time. 

11:47am 

Fiddleford lurches upright immediately and scrambles for his glasses with clumsy, panicked hands. He stares, flabbergasted, at the clock. Unfortunately, his watch reads the same time, and he practically falls out of bed in his haste to get up. The rest of the next ten minutes is a blur, but he has vague impressions of a cold shower, getting his head stuck in a shirt sleeve, and sending a television remote to the floor while grabbing his materials for the presentation. One desperate, garbled plea with a nonplussed cab driver and a particularly harrowing taxi ride later, he’s panting and sweating before the front desk of the investor’s building. 

“Excuse me, ma'am” Fiddleford wheezes. The secretary manning the desk looks slightly alarmed and a security guard starts to approach him. “I’m Fiddleford McGucket, I have a meeting at 9am with the investor’s board?” 

“...It’s past noon,” the woman behind the front desk points out slowly. 

“Yes, yes, I realize I’m a tad late, but is it possible for me to meet with them anyway?” Fiddleford asks. His desperation must get through to her, because instead of having security take him away, she nods and begins to flip through a day planner. 

“Can I have your ID?”

Fiddleford is forced to put some of his things on the floor, which causes some stray pencils to roll away, but manages to produce his ID after a bit of fumbling. She looks between the card and Fiddleford with some scrutiny and he tries to help the process along by using his saliva as  _ ad hoc _ mousse, attempting to look more like the respectable man in the photo and less like the anxious wreck before her. His attempts either work or, far more likely, engender pity as she returns his ID to him.

“I can confirm your 9am appointment and I will give the head of the investor’s board a call. If you’ll take a seat.” 

Fiddleford nods, grateful for her assistance and for the chance to rest. He chases down some of the presentation items that attempt to escape and gently places them in a spare seat. Sinking into another chair, he lets out a sigh as he’s finally able to catch his breath. 

He takes a look around, admiring the lovely building and interior decorations when he accidentally locks eyes with the security guard. The large man glares disdainfully at him and he averts his eyes. 

Thinking it would be best if he kept his head down, Fiddleford looks instead to his watch - gently tapping on its face and listening to its ticking. It seems to be in working order, but he won’t know for sure until he opens it up later. Why did it fail him this morning? The alarm clock at the hotel,  _ that  _ Fiddleford could understand running low on juice or dying, but ol’ reliable always lived up to its name. 

“Mr. McGucket?” Fiddleford looks up at the secretary, ready for some good news, but she shakes her head at him sadly. 

His face falls. Well, it was his own fault for being over three hours late. Fiddleford gathers his things quietly and makes his way out the door, continuing to evade the searing glare of the security guard as he went.

Back at the hotel he makes some calls, but they all end the same. Silicon Valley may be big, but word has gotten out that Fiddleford McGucket was not to be given a chance. Not to be deterred, he takes to the streets and visits in person to try and make his case, but is met with shut doors. You’d think a bunch of practical people could understand the occasional accidental lie-in. Hadn’t they gone to university and pulled one too many inadvisable all-nighters?

After a few days of having every opportunity slip through his fingers, Fiddleford decides that alcohol was most definitely in order and leaves the hotel to go drown his sorrows in an appropriately depressing bar. Unfortunately, everything in the area seems to be filled with bright lights and loud music, nothing like the places he’s used to at home. He could use some comforting darkness after losing such a big opportunity. His professors at Backups More had done their best to secure something for him, and here he’d gone and wasted it. 

Fiddleford Hadron McGucket would never make his mark on the world. 

It was with this uplifting conclusion that Fiddleford finds himself aimlessly wandering the streets. 

He shivers as the temperature around him drops even lower. Stupid California and its warm days and cold nights. Blowing into his hands, Fiddleford looks for a store. Maybe it’d be best to buy his own bottle and head back to the hotel to nurse his hurts in solitude. 

A light flickers behind him. 

A quick glance over his shoulder shows that it’s only a car starting up. The driver has their high beams on, which is terribly rude, but Silicon Valley was turning out to be filled with rude jerks. Fiddleford ignores the car and continues to walk away. 

The car revs obnoxiously behind him and Fiddleford rolls his eyes. There’s a screech of tires, and Fiddleford can’t help but look back at the utter tool that’s making the noise. 

The car is heading straight for him! 

Fiddleford jumps out of the way as the car hits the curb and barrels into a street lamp, right where he had been standing only seconds before. Stumbling back stiffly, grasping at his racing heart, he snarls, “Watch where you're driving!”

The driver doesn’t reply, but the car revs again and shoots backwards, almost clipping him. The car rockets back and hits another car parked on the other side of the road. 

Fiddleford is about to yell again, try to wave and get this maniac’s attention, when he notices that there is no driver. 

But that can’t be right. Fiddleford himself hadn’t even reached that level of technology yet, there was no way the car was driving itself. 

Yet, the car turned towards him, uncaring about the damage it was inflicting on itself or the car behind it. 

Fiddleford took off in a run. 

The car chased after him and the only reason that Fiddleford hadn’t been run over was due to the multitude of street lamps, parking meters, and other heavy items that are littering the street, blocking the car’s path and briefly slowing its progress. When he sees the opening of a thin alley, he dashes into it. 

There are a few miles until he reaches the hotel, but if he can run through the alleys then he should be able to avoid whoever-  _ whatever _ is chasing him down. 

When he reaches the street, he peeks out. He can’t see or hear the car, so he takes his chance to run to the next alley across the street. 

A car’s lights blink on to his right. 

“Oh no,” he whispers and turns his head. 

There’s another car, a different car, with its high beams pointed at him. Oh, why was this happening to him? The car revs its engine and barrels towards him. There’s no time to dodge and nothing is blocking its path. Fiddleford throws his arms in front of his face. 

A red car comes tearing out of nowhere and hits the other car, dead-on. 

The wall of a nearby strip mall stops their momentum and pins the car that was about to kill him. Its headlights flicker off and Fiddleford slaps a hand over his mouth as he notices that once again, the car has no driver. 

However, it becomes abundantly clear that the red corvette which had previously been used as a battering ram has not only a driver, but a passenger as well. 

“Can’t you watch the road, Stanley?! This is a one way street!” one of the men yells. He gets out, the picture of disarray with his tousled, brown hair and lopsided glasses, which he is quick to set right. He sweeps his hands over himself brusquely in an attempt to smooth out the argyle sweater vest resting over a tasteful, blue button-down. 

“Hey! It’s not my fault the roads are screwy in this city,” his companion snaps back. Unlike the first man, Fiddleford notes that he makes no moves whatsoever to right his disorganized appearance. In fact, it very well could be the look he was going for considering the worn, red jacket and slightly stained white t-shirt underneath. The frays of his torn jeans were so long they swayed with his sharp movements as he exits the vehicle, and his beat up boots made little noise as he runs over to the other car.

When he reached the driver’s side door, the unkempt man takes a quick peek inside and slumps against the other vehicle with a relieved sigh. “Phew! Looks like we don’t have to break out the shovel.”

“What? Let me see,” his companion stalks over and cups his hands around his eyes to prevent glare from the streetlights overhead as he peers inside.

“And not a scratch on the Stanley Mobile,” the second man says, patting the hood of his car fondly after having turned around to inspect the front. 

Fiddleford falls to the ground. His legs aren’t working anymore and he’s shaking. The shock must be getting to him. First the carousel of failure, then the near death experience, and now all of this. He’s surprised he hasn’t collapsed earlier. Fiddleford lets out a nervous laugh in quick, staccato bursts - his habit of laughing at inappropriate times rearing its ugly head. 

The sound attracts the other men and they rush over in a flurry of nervous energy to help him up. 

“Uh, hey! I’m Hal Forester and this is my brother Gord,” the one in the jeans and jacket says. His companion in the sweater vest glares at him. “Are you okay sir? Was that your car?” 

“Oh give him some air, Sta-”

“Hal.”

The correction induces a huff of air and an exaggerated eye roll. “Give him some air,  _ Hal _ .” 

‘Gord’ fishes out a small pen light from his pocket, which he turns on and shines in Fiddleford’s eyes one at a time. He hums thoughtfully and gently takes Fiddleford’s wrist in his large hand, fingers and thumb closing around the inside of it to feel his pulse. “You’re showing signs of shock. Do you need to go to the hospital?” He asks. 

“Hospital! Yeah, smart move! We can lose- I mean, help you out,” ‘Hal’ said with a flustered grin. 

Fiddleford shakes his head. Maybe it isn’t the smartest idea to prolong the time spent with these two, but he doesn’t want to be left alone after almost being killed by a driverless car. He flips the wrist in Gord’s grasp to cling to his sleeve in a silent plea, which the other man thankfully picks up on. 

...If not in the way he’d hoped.

“Do you want anything from your car?” Gord offers. When Fiddleford doesn’t immediately reply, Gord turns to the wrecked car and its lights flicker on. The car revs its engine again, the menacing and unprompted action taking all three men off guard. Fiddleford jerks back, unbalanced, and it’s only with Hal’s support that he doesn’t fall over. The car gives another rev, weaker this time, before the engine sputters and dies. 

“I’m not the driver,” Fiddleford manages to choke out.

Hal and Gord share a look, before Gord goes to their car and pulls out a cylindrical object that resembles a salt container. 

“Begone, spirit!” He yells, before starting to throw a white, grainy substance at the car that did, indeed,  _ remarkably _ resemble salt. 

The three men stare intensely at the salt-covered vehicle. 

Nothing happens. 

Then the air gets colder and a wisp of white fog seems to leak out of the car. Fiddleford tries to move away, but Hal keeps a firm grip on him. 

Gord starts to chant as he throws more salt, violently. The wisp grows bigger in size and curls away from the salt attacks. He throws what looks to be his final attack, accompanied by a fervent command: “Begone!”

In an instant, the wisp grows larger and  _ screams _ . 

Hal immediately pulls Fiddleford behind him. 

“Fiddleford Hadron McGucket!” 

Fiddleford stops cold. A chill shoots down his spine and he feels the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck stand up. That voice… He knows that voice.

Fiddleford hesitantly peers around one of Hal’s beefy arms to get a good look at the...thing, that comes from the car. The wisp coalesces slowly, growing larger and more humanoid, until the ill-defined mass sharpens into the form of a man. He’s young and his face is awfully familiar…

The spirit notices Fiddleford peering around Hal and makes a grab for him, but Gord suddenly appears in front of them and fends off the creature with another salt attack. 

“ _ Fiddleford _ ,” the spirit hisses. “I heard you were having a few ‘technological troubles’.”

“Oh god,” Fiddleford says, eyes widening in realization. “My watch…”

“Oh yes,” The spirit cackles. “And your calculator, and your alarm clock, and the car that’s going to run you over!”

The spirit swoops towards the cars, but an arrow lances through it, causing it to emit an ear-piercing screech. Its form starts to melt at the edges, but before Gord can reload his crossbow (a  _ crossbow _ ? Fiddleford thinks almost hysterically. When in the Sam Hill did he get a crossbow??), the spirit races away. 

“Dammit, it got away,” Gord spits. He stalks over to retrieve the arrow from the street and stuffs the weapon away somewhere in a large trench coat that he’d somehow acquired during the spirit’s appearance. 

Fiddleford can feel himself getting faint. 

“Woah,” Hal said, giving him a gentle but firm shake. Concern shines in his eyes. “Come on, buddy. Let’s get you somewhere safe. Where are you staying?” 

Fiddleford rattles off his hotel address and the two men herd him into their car. He’s left alone in the back seat where he curls up on himself. They give him concerned looks, but don’t say anything. It’s those concerned looks that get to him. He’s been having some trouble ever since he came to this city: paranoia, odd chills, technological issues, but he thought they it was just a string of bad luck. As it turns out, every moment since he’s come to Silicon Valley has been plagued by a- a ghost haunting him. 

It was all so surreal.

His calculations weren’t wrong and his watch didn’t fail him. There was a supernatural force at work that had been doing its best to prevent his meeting with the investors. If he had met with them, they would have loved his invention and supported his work. 

Fiddleford finds that his hands are shaking, not from the cold or fear, but frustration. He came all the way out to Silicon Valley in order to present groundbreaking work and a  _ ghost _ was here to stop him! Out of all the ways to find out about the supernatural existing and it had to be at the expense of his career!

“I find out ghosts exist, at the expense of my career!” Fiddleford bursts out. “The probability was so low, yet this is how I find out! Why in Tarnation didn’t this occur in the middle of the woods at night or, or- when I was smoking pot at BackUps More-”

Fiddleford continues his rant the whole trip back. 

When they get back to the hotel, Fiddleford has worn himself down. Hal and Gord get him up to his room and Fiddleford is too exhausted to think about what they look like. Him, falling over his feet, being led by two mysterious men who are terribly underdressed for this hotel. Or maybe they didn’t stand out, because they were in Silicon Valley where trench coats and hoodies weren’t considered as much of a fashion faux pas next to his floral button-ups. 

“I’m pretty sure those shirts would be a crime  _ anywhere _ .”

“Hm?”

Fiddleford lifts his head and finally notices that he’s lying in bed. Hal is helping himself to some of the snacks that Fiddleford has stashed in the fridge. He tries to feel angry over the presumptuousness, as Hal has just snagged a bag of his favorite type of jerky, but he’s too tired to protest. 

“You were talking aloud,” Hal explains. “That was the first time I’ve ever heard anyone actually say ‘what in Tarnation’  _ unironically _ .” 

“I’m allowed to talk aloud after what happened to me. And give me back my jerky,” Fiddleford holds out a hand, not moving from his spot on the bed. 

Hal scoffs, but deposits all the jerky into Fiddleford’s waiting hand. Some pieces spill onto the bed and some of them smack him in the face. It’s somehow very fitting. He starts to chew on one of the ones near his mouth abjectly, letting his hand fall back onto the bed. 

“That bad, huh,” Hal asks sitting on the bed near his head. He slurps on a water he must have snagged from the fridge. 

“Yeah,” Fiddleford says with a sigh. “I think I lost an opportunity of a lifetime because of this- whole mess.”

“That’s fucked up,” Hal offers. 

Fiddleford nods. “Yes, that’s a perfect way to describe this situation.” 

“Well, I’ve finished warding off your room and the hotel. You might get some questions from the staff, but I believe I’ve convinced them that it was necessary-” Gord enters the room but pauses when he sees the other two on the bed. 

“This is highly unprofessional, Stan,” Gord says, his lips turning down into a disapproving frown. “Why don't you salt the room?”

Hal- or maybe Stan- catches the container of salt tossed at him one-handed with a sour look on his face and stands up. “Come on, it’s  _ Hal _ remember?”

“It was Hal when you thought you ran into the man’s car. Now it’s Ford,” Gord, or apparently Ford, turns to Fiddleford and gestures to himself, “And my twin brother, Stan Pines. We’re supernatural hunters and you are being haunted by a ghost.”

“A pretty angry one, too. What did you do to the guy?” Stan asks, slightly muffled, bent over in the corner as he steadily pours a trail of salt around the room. 

Fiddleford doesn’t want to remember, but he carefully reviews his memories of the ghost. He shivers lightly and thinks about the face of the one chasing him. 

“I think I knew the ghost, I mean, I knew him when he was alive,” Fiddleford stutters. 

“That’s the case for most spirits that are so violent towards the living,” Ford explains, cocking a hip and crossing his arms across his chest. “Especially one that’s so powerful. I haven’t encountered many ghosts that are above a Category 5, but of the ones I have, most of them are around for revenge.”

“Revenge! But I barely knew the man! I only met him in school because we were in similar fields of study!” Fiddleford sputtered. 

He starts at the sudden weight next to him on the bed and turns to lock eyes with a searching stare. Stan sits next to Fiddleford again, the line of salt around the walls apparently finished. The sight brings him a surprising amount of relief. 

“You sure? Ghosts that can possess objects are angry ones. Didn’t steal a lover, made him look bad, or steal a science idea?” Stan probes. 

“Definitely did not steal any lovers, I was never exclusive with- that’s not important.” Stan looks rather interested in what Fiddleford didn’t say and Fiddleford stumbles out another answer. “I don’t think I made him look bad, he was mostly into tactical vehicles and I was into household inventions. Completely different fields of invention.”

“How odd,” Ford says, tapping his chin as his eyes cloud over in thought. “Maybe he was just jealous of your intellect? I can see from your calculations that you are quite gifted.”

Fiddleford warms at the compliment. “Oh? You’re also a scientist?”

Ford’s faraway gaze snaps back in an instant, and he clears his throat. “Why, yes. I happen to specialize in the supernatural, but I consider myself a pursuer of knowledge.”

“Well, I’m always up for an intellectual exchange. I would love to see some of your research.”

Ford’s face lights up like a Christmas tree as he darts his hand into his coat and pulls out a battered journal littered with loose papers. He proceeds to hand it over to Fiddleford, but Stan snatches the book before Fiddleford can take it. Surprisingly, Stan combs through the journal and loose pages himself before selecting a few papers and handing them over to him. It would seem that Stan has a knack for guessing the research subjects Fiddleford would be most interested in, as he can barely contain the “oohs” and “ahhs” that escape him as he pores over the meticulous notes.

He doesn’t leave the bed for a while. Stan continues to flip through the papers before handing them off to Fiddleford. Fiddleford, in turn, reads through the notes and reacts like an audience to a theatrical play. It would be embarrassing, but for the fact that Ford seems to genuinely enjoy and actively encourage his participation. He actually comes over and sits on the bed to look over the pages with him, giving more context to certain notes and even going so far as to ask for Fiddleford’s opinions on some of the more intriguing items and their potential applications.

He is so invested in his intellectually stimulating conversation with Ford that Fiddleford probably could have continued that way all night, if it hadn’t been for Stan’s interruption.

“This is a pretty good idea, Fiddleford.”

“Hm?” 

Fiddleford looks up to see Stan staring at his poster board that was meant to be presented to the investors. The man looks over it all with a critical eye and Fiddleford appreciates the attention to his work. Although not a scientist, it was clear that Stan was also a man who knew his stuff. 

“Why, thank you.”

“Say, you said you went to BackUpsMore? That’s a hippie school, right?”

“Stan,” Ford scolded. 

“No, no,” Fiddleford waves him off. “It’s true, it was one of the reasons why I chose the school. They’re very socially liberal.”

“So, would you say that your inventions got more attention than the other guy’s?” 

“I suppose…”

“How did he die?” 

“I think there was an unfortunate accident with one of his inventions.”

Fiddleford shuddered at the thought. It was a cautionary tale for everyone at the school and they had done a small ceremony for him. It was a terrible way to lose such a great mind (and to one of his inventions no less). William Hughs would always be remembered as the man that worked a little too hard in his research. 

Stan stares at him. “Fiddleford, my man, you could be the reason that he’s a ghost haunting the mortal plane. Contrary to popular belief, it’s really difficult to be a powerful, vindictive ghost without some sorta focus. If you’re who he’s focusing on, then this guy’s hate for you really is one in a million.”

“Actually, it’s more like one in seventeen million,” Ford mutters, earning an impressively exaggerated eye roll from his twin.

Fiddleford withers. “Well… What does it mean for me?”

“This guy’s, what, a level eight?” Stan speculates, looking to Ford for guidance.

“Perhaps a category nine.”

“The scale is out of ten, by the way,” Stan clarifies for Fiddleford’s benefit. He sits back down on the bed, moving the jerky sticks around. “So we got a category nine ghost that’s hellbent on killing you.”

“And any ghost above a category seven will never dissipate on its own,” Ford adds, transferring his serious gaze from Stan to Fiddleford.

Fiddleford looks between the two of them. 

Stan abruptly slaps his leg and stands up. “Whelp! We should get going, Ford.”

“Oh, so soon?” Ford asks, nonchalant.

“We were hunting that, that…”

“Scampfire?” 

“Exactly! Found during specific phases of the moon when chanting about socks, you know how it is, we gotta get going.” Stan catches Ford’s eyes and jerks his head several times towards the exit in a comically obvious attempt at subtlety.

“Hmm. Well, it’s true that this is an ideal time to go find the creature...” Ford considers, seemingly taking no notice of his twin’s social cues, and rises from the bed. 

Fiddleford bolts up from the bed soon after, sending some of the jerky flying. “Wait! You can’t just leave me here! How will I deal with the ghost?”

Stan heaves a heavy sigh from his place in front of the door, and turns slightly to address Fiddleford. “Listen, if you keep your head down and always keep salt with ya, you should be fine. The whole thing,” Stan gestures to the room, “we wanted to reassure you. But ghosts generally don’t go into crowded human places. Disturbs their mojo.”

“But- but- this guy has already haunted my room, my calculator, my clock!”

Stan snorts. “Yeah, but those’re a lot of not important things. Things that won’t kill ya. Crowded buildings like this he won’t be able to exert his full influence.”

“You’ll have to exorcise the ghost. There’s no other way to get rid of a category nine ghost,” Ford adds, like it’s of scientific interest and it isn’t a life-or-death concern for Fiddleford. 

And suddenly Fiddleford realizes that Stan and Ford have no interest in helping him. Despite him and Ford connecting over their mutual interest in science, the man wasn’t going to offer his expertise. Or did he believe that Fiddleford could solve this issue on his own? He had just found out hours ago that the supernatural existed! Fiddleford desperately needed the help of these men. 

“I mean, we could help out,” Stan says with a shrug. 

Fiddleford almost gets whiplash from the one-eighty. Why was he offering to help him out now?

“Ford, can you check to see if we have time to take a detour?” 

“I’ll double check. It would be nice to stay. I would prefer not to miss the opportunity to go up against a category nine. We haven’t properly gotten to study a ghost of this level. Let me check our supplies…”

Ford’s voice trails off as he exits the door and gets further and further away from the room. Stan closes the door. Fiddleford watches as he pulls a chair over and straddles it. 

“Look, Fiddleford, you’re in a big mess so I’ll tell it to you straight: we don’t do charity work. So if you want our help, then you’re going to have to make it worth it to us.”

Fiddleford reels back. They were trying to get money out of him?

“Ah-ah, don’t give me look. Listen, we don’t need much. Maybe some inventions. Anyways, a smart guy like you will be able to recover in no time. Especially with this ghost dead,” Stan continues. 

Fiddleford glares. He’s about to tell this guy to hit the road, but his darn genius brain stops his body from actually spitting out the words. He knows that he’s already way over his head with the fact that ghosts exist, so either he’ll be moving into a salt mine or paying for these grifters’ help. 

Fiddleford snaps out of it and marches over to glower down at Stan. He puts out his hand. Stan looks at him, amused. “Let’s shake on it,” Fiddlford snaps, “If you promise to get this... _ thing _ away from me, I’ll provide whatever tech you need as payment.”

Stan considers it, then clasps Fiddleford’s hand in a strong grip and gives it a few hearty shakes. “Deal.”

They draw up a simple contract detailing materials, equipment (which would be made by Fiddleford, but base materials to be provided to and ‘acquired’ by the twins), housing (the hotel was going to be their home base, it was already well-salted and had a nice garage for the Stanley Mobile), and finally, a guarantee in writing stating that the twins would exorcise the ghost. 

Not trusting that the man wouldn't try to get out of the work, Fiddleford also has Stan write the methods of how the twins would exorcise the ghost. A surprising number of methods looked like they would better suit television than real life, and once Fiddleford reads through all the details he hopes they’ll only go with the tamer methods (he hopes they didn’t need the dead cat and that this whole crazy mess wouldn’t scar him for life). In addition, Fiddleford extracts a promise that he could contact the twins if any other supernatural beings come to haunt him in the future. 

Stan agrees, as long as they were paid. And he has Fiddleford write that if he became a big, rich hotshot, he wouldn’t forget about ‘Stan and Ford, the mysterious and handsome men that had saved his life’.

(Stan’s exact words.)

At the very least, hopefully Fiddleford wouldn’t forget about them and that if everything turned out hunky-dory then they could hang out. Maybe grab a beer or a sandwich. 

Writing the contract is an exercise in patience for Fiddleford. It’s not easy for him to be so casual about something that concerns his life. Even with the contract, Fiddleford had no guarantee that Stan wasn’t scamming him and the negotiations might have soured Fiddleford more, if it wasn’t for the fact that Stan would the contract specifically mention that he wants his brother to have more chances to ‘talk about science with a fellow nerd.’

Fiddleford actually thinks it’s quite sweet that Stan is considering his brother’s innocent wants, despite the extortion. It’s endearing is what it is. 

There are addendums and edits, but in the end they create a contract that both of them are happy with. 

Fiddleford copies the contract into one of his nicer notebooks, while Stan snags the original. He disappears and is back within the hour with copies made. Apparently the hotel had a copy machine. Fiddleford tucks the contract somewhere safe. And after he does, he feels a calm settle over him. 

The ghost isn’t gone, far from it, but the events of the night are catching up to him. All the incidents: failing to meet the investors, being chased by a car and almost dying, then finding out it was all caused by a ghost...the contract was a solution. A light at the end of a very dangerous, albeit bizarre, tunnel. 

He starts swaying, and suddenly there is a hand pushing him towards the bed. He flops onto it. Then his pants are being removed. He should protest, but they’re off before he can voice a word. A blanket settles on top of him. 

“Sleep. I’ll go talk to Ford, and when you wake up we can eat.” 

His mind takes in the words, but all he hears is ‘sleep.’ It sounds like a good idea, so Fiddleford closes his eyes and drifts off. 

\-----

Stan watches as Fiddleford passes out as soon as the man's head hits the pillow. He gently removes his glasses and cleans up the fallen jerky around the bed. 

Stan shakes his head, resisting the urge to ruffle the man's hair. The guy reminds him too much of Ford, from his nerdiness to his too-trusting nature. This is the reason he didn’t fleece the man for all that he had. Not because he liked the guy, and certainly not because he was a good person. 

Good person or not, he places some water on the nightstand, rechecks the salt boundaries, and flips off the light before heading out. 

When Stan finds his brother, Ford’s in the passenger seat of the car scribbling in his journal.

“Hey.” Stan hands him his copy of the contract. 

Ford takes it without looking and shoves it into a binder filled with their other contracts. Stan rolls his eyes. They’ll never find it again. “So, the contract states the usual, yadda yadda yadda, that we’ll help this guy exorcise the ghost, even if it comes back, and lists our most reliable exorcist methods. In return, he’ll supply us with what he can, and if he becomes a hotshot then we’ll come a-calling.” 

Apparently something in the contract is a little different than usual, because Ford actually lifts his head and pauses his journal entry. He snags Stan’s contract copy from his hands and reads it to himself. He mumbles and mutters, not unhappily, but his brows furrow as if in confusion. He scoffs at some of the methods listed in the ‘possible methods of exorcism’ list and nods at some of the others. 

Ford hands the copy back to Stan. “This is rather unusual compared to most of our jobs,” he notes. He gently taps at their part of the bargain. It’s a statement, but Stan can tell that Ford’s asking why it’s different. 

Stan shrugs, although he agrees that this job is much different than any other they’ve encountered so far. Most of the time they stay long enough to get what they need, help prevent the worst from happening, and then they skip town. The few times they’ve had official supernatural jobs, they’d intentionally written the contract in convoluted language and with so many loopholes that the paper could’ve passed for swiss cheese. 

“Is that gonna be a problem?” Stan asks, dodging Ford’s unvoiced question. 

Ford strokes his chin thoughtfully. “No, he seems like an intelligent man. He doesn’t seem like the type to discount some of our more unique methods,” 

“Yeah, and he looks like he’ll understand that staying alive is more important than whatever’s in the contract,” Stan affirms with a nod.

Ford shoots Stan a look, but he’s already flipping through one of his many journals, pulling up methods for exorcising the ghost. “Have more faith, Stan. We’re quite experienced and we have a lot of resources at our disposal. This is already better than some of our past jobs.”

“‘Experienced’,” Stan echoes. He holds back a snort. 

They were, in fact, not that experienced. Through a combination of Ford’s ability to absorb the contents of a library within hours, Stan’s common sense and willingness to try anything, and a healthy dose of good luck, they’ve been able to get by. But there have been a few close calls in the past. Stan might suggest they retire from monster hunting altogether if it wasn’t for the fact that he was living their childhood dream. Minus the boat and the money, of course. 

Being on the road with Ford and having (dangerous) adventures with him was what Stan always wanted. He just wishes there were less life-or-death situations, and a little more luxury. 

The sound of Ford cursing draws his attention back to his brother. Ford is already enthusiastically planning out their first exorcism attempt, his pen flying over a fresh page. He’s getting ink on himself, the dork. The first thing Stan should make Ford do is take a shower, since there’s one in the hotel room with unlimited water. 

He should throw the nerd in himself, make sure he actually cleans up properly, give him a hand...

Stan shakes his head. 

He needs to go pick up the supplies for their first attempt at an exorcism. This ghost looks stronger than any ghost they’ve faced so far, so he needs to be focused. It’s his job to save his brother when they inevitably jump out of the frying pan and into the fire. 

“Anyways, I’ll go take a look around and gather supplies,” Stan says. 

Ford pauses his entry and looks at him. “Do you want me to go with you?” 

“Nah, it’ll be easier by myself,” Stan shrugs. 

“It’s the middle of the night, almost morning,” Ford says, a touch of incredulity coloring his voice. “I would prefer that you don’t get in trouble the first day we’re in the city.”

“I’m not stupid, I’m just getting a lay of the land,” Stan says. He’s already getting up and ready to leave, gently stretching his hands out. 

Apparently, his easy confidence does not reassure Ford. 

“What about the ghost? We should go as a team,” Ford protests. 

“Eh, the guy has too much of an obsession with Fiddleford to go after me. Besides, I don’t think he’ll remember me if it’s just me and I have a few look-away wards on me. I’ll be fine. Don’t wait up and get some sleep.” 

With that, Stan heads out. He tosses Ford a salute, but quickly disappears around a corner. Ford thinks about running after him, but it’s hard to argue against Stan’s logic. Stan would be more discreet if he were alone (both around humans and the ghost). Odds are, Stan would be in less danger if Ford wasn’t with him. 

However, logic doesn’t stop his stomach from twisting in worry. Ford thinks that Stan is being a little bit cavalier in his attitude towards this ghost. Probably due to the prospect of a fair job, for once. 

Digging through his binder of contracts, Ford retrieves and smooths out their latest contract to reread. He can pinpoint which parts must be Stan’s contributions, but this Fiddleford definitely had a hand in the creation of the document. The wording strikes Ford as unusual, because Stan has never once wanted to be friends with any of the people they’ve met on the road. Sure, Stanley was a friendly and charismatic person in general, but they weren’t in one place long enough to create lasting attachments to others. 

Ford wonders what’s so special about Fi- about this job, that made Stan write the contract this way. Honestly, it was like he wanted to guarantee that they would stay acquainted with the man.

At least Fiddleford was smart. It wouldn’t be too great of a hardship to continue keeping in contact with him. And it was true that it would be unkind to leave a fellow genius in distress. It was practically Ford’s responsibility to help the man out. 

Ford nods to himself, satisfied. He’s no longer in the mood to continue his plans. He’s tempted to stay up and keep a lookout for Stan, but he’s getting tired and Stan did tell him to go to sleep. 

Ford fixes up his side of the car to get some rest. With a ball of Stan’s (mostly) clean shirts acting as an ad hoc pillow and his trench coat pulled up for warmth, he settles in to sleep. Within seconds he dozes off. 

\-----

Within the hour, Stan is back from information gathering. There are a few places he’s scouted for supplies that are within easy walking distance. A church for some holy water, silver from a pawn shop, the animal shelter for cats; he’s already raided someone’s potted plants for sage (he’ll have to dry that tonight). All of the easy stuff has been taken care of. Now it’s just a matter of exorcising the ghost. 

That’s the part Stan is worried about. In all his years of life, it’s the one lesson he’s seen over and over again: anybody (or anything) that’s living, doesn’t want to die. Himself included. 

Stan shakes his head. He gets maudlin when he’s tired. He should cheer up a bit. They can sleep under a roof tonight, in a room with a carpeted floor, get a shower in, and there’ll even be complimentary breakfast in the morning. (He tries not to think about how happy his short and, admittedly, meager, positive list makes him.)

Of course, when Stan gets back he finds Ford asleep in the car. The man was worried about him being in danger, but he just passes out? Typical. 

Stan unlocks the door and moves to wake his dumb brother up. But part way through its journey to Ford’s shoulder, he finds his hand diverting to his head instead, his fingers running carefully through his brother’s hair. Ford’s dark, curly hair is soft and fluffs easily in his hand. 

Shit. 

Stan jerks his hand back. 

What is he doing?

Before he can think too hard about it, Stan dives back in and gives Ford a couple of rough shakes. “Hey Sixer, wake up.”

Ford snorts awake, the forceful wakeup call a shock to the light sleeper’s system. ”Wha-what is it?”

“Come on, we’re going to stay in Fiddleford’s room.” Stan hustles Ford out of the car, making sure to lock it, and guides him back to the hotel. They get another dirty look from the staff, but Stan just moves faster. Luckily they don’t get stopped. 

They get to the room and softly sneak inside. Stan leads Ford into the corner and raids the closet for extra blankets and pillows. They make a nest (Stan tries not to read too much into how they’re sharing the nest. It’s only because there’s limited room and one blanket) and Ford settles in quickly. Stan wants to settle beside him, but holds back. Instead, he wakes up Fiddleford to let him know they’re here (the man gives him a sleepy affirmative) and jots down a quick note for good measure, so he’s not surprised when he wakes and is more coherent. 

Then he takes off his shoes and gets into the nest with Ford. 

Stan doesn’t know if it’s the safe environment, the pillows, the blanket, or the fact that he’s sleeping next to Ford, but he finds that once he’s snuggled in beside his brother he falls asleep almost instantly. 

\-----

Fiddleford finds himself awake. 

He’s still groggy and blinking the film and crust from his eyes, but he’s awake. 

Fiddleford looks around, but it’s dark and blurry. He feels around for his glasses and finds them on the side table. He doesn’t remember removing them, but then again he was  _ very _ tired last night. Who knows what he did before finally passing out? He puts on his glasses and finds a note on his bedside table. ‘We decided to stay in the room.’

There’s a snort and Fiddleford jumps. He looks towards the corner and sees a pile of pillows and a blanket- and people. Someone flops over and Fiddleford sees Stan’s face smashed uncomfortably into the ground. The form behind him must be Ford, and he watches as the arm slung around Stan’s waist twitches and pulls him in closer before settling with a contented huff that ruffles the hair at the base of Stan’s neck. 

Huh.

They’re sleeping so heavily that Fiddleford doesn’t think he can wake them, nor does he want to. They went to sleep so late that they need every hour they could get. 

Speaking of which…

Fiddleford checks the clock and his watch for good measure: they read 6:24am. Why did he wake up so early? Fiddleford lays back and attempts to sleep again, but he can already tell that he’s awake and any effort to reach dreamland will be wasted. 

It must be his body trying to wake up early after yesterday’s late start. 

He looks at the clock and his watch again: 6:27am. 

His eyes are so gritty and they sting, but his brain is completely awake. Fiddleford throws the blankets off with a frustrated sigh. At least if he gets up now, then he can shower and change without worrying about the men in the corner. 

The hot water is a godsend, and when he’s finished and feeling much more awake and refreshed, Fiddleford finds the twins still snoozing in the corner. He checks his watch once more (confident that it’s correct and not haunted anymore) and sees that they can make the beginning of the complimentary breakfast. 

Fiddleford nibbles at his bottom lip in thought and apprehension as he eyes the pile of men on the floor. They’re virtual strangers, dangerous ones, at that, and he doesn’t want to rouse them from their comfortable slumber for something that they might not deem important enough. ‘Let sleeping dogs lie’ is a well-known idiom for a reason, after all, and one that Fiddleford himself had become more than well acquainted with after spending time with his uncle’s old hunting dog as a kid.

Then again, the matter  _ does _ involve free food, and really, what sane person could ever deem an opportunity of free food as unimportant?

Fiddleford hems and haws for a few more moments before he screws up his courage and attempts to wake the two up with a few light pushes to their shoulders, finally managing to rouse Stan with a shaky touch slightly stronger than a faint tap.

“Huh?” Stan blurts out as he jerks awake. 

“Do you want to go to breakfast?” Fiddleford whispers. 

In an instant, Stan is rubbing and slapping at his face to wake up. “What kind of question is that?” He whispers back. “Let’s go before all the good stuff’s taken.”

“What about Ford?”

Stan blinks and seems to notice his brother’s presence for the first time. He cranes his neck over his shoulder to get a look at him, and trails his hand lightly up Ford’s furry arm still holding loosely to his torso. He turns to look back and Fiddleford can’t help but notice how careful Stan’s being as he delicately lifts Ford’s arm to extricate himself from his hold. “It’s fine, let him sleep. I’ll sneak something out for ‘im.” 

They quietly sneak out of the room and go down for breakfast. Some of the workers eye Stan, but they get into the dining area just fine. All the patrons are ignoring them and Fiddleford is glad he invited Stan. He’s not used to the cold, unfriendly attitude of the people in Silicon Valley. Even in BackUps More, people would at least meet your eye and say hello. Stan at least will listen to him. 

Fiddleford feels like he’s babbling a little, talking a lot about nothing, but Stan obliges him and makes small talk and acknowledges his words. Mostly the other man spends the whole time shoveling food in his mouth when he’s not chatting. Fiddleford makes sure to grab enough that he’ll be full until lunch, but finds himself picking at everything and chugging his coffee a little too enthusiastically. He manages to eat most of the lighter food, but the heavier foods end up going to waste. 

Fiddleford is surprised when the servers start clearing the area, until he realizes that it’s already 9am. Drat, and Ford didn’t get the chance to eat. 

Fiddleford sighs and start to clean up his plate-

“Wait.” Stan stops him. “Let’s pack your leftovers up.” 

“Stan,” Fiddleford says, looking pointedly at the servers who are eyeing them rather closely. 

Stan rolls his eyes. “They’ll just throw it away and you definitely didn’t eat enough.” But instead of making him do anything, Stan is quick to throw everything between two slices of bread and wrap it together. Fiddleford squeaks when Stan stuffs the giant “sandwich” into his jacket pocket. 

“C’mon,” the man says, standing up casually, as though he hadn’t just forced a breakfast buffet into an ungodly, compact mess.

They make it back to the room without being stopped and Fiddleford sighs. He feels jittery and nervous even though all he’s doing is taking his leftovers to his room. This ghost business really isn’t good for his blood pressure. 

He flops into an armchair, while Stan wakes up Ford. Tossing the remains of their breakfast onto the table, Fiddleford sinks further into the chair. Ford wanders over a minute later and settles into the chair next to his, looking exceptionally tired. He knows that feeling. 

Ugh, now he’s just wallowing. The fact that he failed his interview (didn’t even get the chance to present his invention) and the fact that now he’s being haunted by a killer ghost is hitting him (again). What did he ever do to deserve any of this?

“Why don’t you two eat and discuss nerd stuff while I go take a shower? After that we’ll get started on getting that ghost. C’mon, buck up, Fidds. It’s not the end of the world!” Stan leaves no room for argument, and gives Fiddleford a friendly slap on the shoulder for emphasis. Upon Ford he bestows an affectionate noogie, which wakes the man up. Ford slaps at Stan with an irritated growl and Stan giggles before he takes pity on his brother and upends what appears to be a fourth of the breakfast bar out of his jacket. He just continues to keep taking out food out of nowhere and Fiddleford stares, astonished, while Ford treats this like it’s normal behavior and starts eating from the pilfered pile. 

Then Ford asks him a question about his invention and after that he’s distracted from his amazement by talking to another intellectual. While Ford doesn’t have a specific concentration of science (other than the supernatural), he is well-versed in all sciences. They manage a steady conversation in between bites of food while the sound of the shower provides white noise in the background. 

Fiddleford is once again surprised by how much time passes when Stan interrupts them (before they can break out the display boards). He’s already grabbed a new outfit for himself and Ford and finished his shower. Stan pushes his brother towards the shower and takes his seat. Fiddleford is a bit disappointed by the interruption, but Stan makes it up to him by handing him the newspaper. 

He flips through it absently, and chuckles when he sees the results of a high profile football game. He shows Stan the score and Stan laughs too. They manage to get into a good-natured debate about the state of sports and about a few of California’s teams’ quick rise to fame (and some of their terrible failures). 

By the time Ford finishes his shower, Fiddleford is comfortably laughing with Stan.

It’s nice. Settling in California to go to school, Fiddleford had been forced to give up a lot of his friends in Tennessee. After BackUps More, he thought he’d build up more connections, but his scientific mind had left many jealous (one enough so to attempt to muder him multiple times  _ post mortem _ ). This opportunity in Silicon Valley was a chance at a new life and new people who maybe didn’t understand his work, but who could appreciate him and his mind. He just didn’t think the understanding would come from a pair of twins who were protecting him from a murderous ghost. 

After a hearty breakfast of purloined hotel buffet goodies, the rest of Fiddleford’s day is spent preparing various ghost exorcism methods. 

The first thing Stan does is somehow finagle with the hotel that the room continues to be paid by the corporation that Fiddleford failed to interview with (how he manages that, Fiddleford doesn’t know, but he doesn’t question it). 

The next is a shopping trip to town. Fiddleford is nervous to go out, but Stan and Ford tell him it’s extremely unlikely that the ghost will attack in broad daylight or around others.

Ford tells him, “ghosts are weakest at key points of the day. You’re safe with us.”

Stan tells him, “that ghost is so melodramatic, he definitely won’t come out until you’re alone and he can scare you.” 

Their words reassure Fiddleford somewhat, but he’s apprehensive about their logic. He asks them individually about each other’s theories, to get their opinion on the other’s take.

After hearing Stan’s logic, Ford replies with an eye roll and a tired nod. “He’s not wrong. Most ghosts of that level that are living for vengeance tend to be  _ very  _ dramatic.” 

After hearing Ford’s logic, Stan replies with a lazy shrug. “We haven’t determined the exact reasoning, but not all ghosts are powerful enough to affect crowds. It’s why they mostly come at night and when people are alone.”

It’s enough reassurance for Fiddleford, and so he heads out into the city with them. He reasons that it’ll be nice to stretch his legs and he’ll have two escorts available if things turn ugly.

The trip turns into an...odd outing. 

They go to the grocery store first, filling up on essentials to last them when breakfast can’t. Fiddleford pays, because besides a few donuts and buckets of coffee (that they are definitely going to share) the brothers don’t buy very much. (Only later does he realize that Stan shoplifted everything else.) 

Then they go through the residential neighborhood, trawling through gardens and outrunning residents. It’s a weekday, so most of the residents are out. At first, Fiddleford is afraid they’re breaking in and stealing, but Stan and Ford simply take what they need from people’s gardens and don’t touch the houses. (Although Fiddleford gets a bad feeling when he sees Stan pointing out a house to Ford that has a housecat come up and sniff them.)

After that, they trawl through a wide array of stores, pawn shops, jewelry stores, antique stores, Goodwill, and manage to come out with strange odds and ends. Most of them are decidingly witchy or creepy enough that Fiddleford trusts that they know what they’re doing. 

The last stop however…

“An art shop?” Fiddleford asks. 

He goes inside with Stan and Ford. It’s just like the one on his old school campus, filled with little expensive knick-knacks and doodads of all colors. It’s not that he doesn’t appreciate art, it’s just that at BackUps More, art was taken  _ very  _ seriously. So seriously, that he as an engineering major was routinely cast out of creative spaces (especially after the incident of ‘77). 

Ford makes a beeline for one of the shelves, while Stan saunters behind him, casually looking around. Fiddleford stays by Stan’s side and tries not to knock any shelves over. 

Stan whispers down to him, “Ford’s just gettin’ another journal.”

“Journal? Ah, for his research,” Fiddleford nods in understanding. 

Stan rolls his eyes at how his brother slowly peruses each option. “It gets tiring after awhile. He ends up making the same damn book each time, anyways.” 

“I see,” Fiddleford says, slowly. The other man seems to be going over inks, which appears to be a very intensive part of the journal creation process with the way his brow furrows harshly and the corners of his lips pull down. 

Stan rolls his eyes again. “Picking out even the damn paper,” he grumbles, before going over to his twin. He places a hand over Ford’s shoulders and whispers something into the man’s ear. Ford waves him off and Stan stalks back to Fiddleford. 

“Come on, Fiddleford,” Stan says with an eye roll. 

“What’s going on?” 

Stan gives a wave. “The nerd’s going to be there for awhile. If you don’t want to be there for hours, then hang out with me.”

Fiddleford looks at Ford, who is indeed picking out paper, gauging the thickness intently. He’s not interested in this place with nothing for him to do. If he stays for too long, he’ll be sure to build something inadvisable that will draw attention to himself. “I’ll come with. Where do you want to go?” 

Stan shrugs. “Where do  _ you _ want to go?”

Oh. Hm. Well, since he’s here, “How about something touristy? I didn’t get the chance to check the place out before I came.”

“Sure, let’s go.”

And they’re off. Stan allows himself to be pulled into kitchy touristy things and even seems to be enjoying himself. Fiddleford has to stop Stan from telling outrageous lies to the other tourists and scamming money off of them, but he’s enjoying himself too. And although Stan grumbles about having to be on his feet all day because of Ford, he still points out things his brother might like. He’s good company. Fiddleford had imagined exploring the city by himself, but he finds exploring with someone next to him much more enjoyable. 

When they get tired of the tourist thing, they just start to explore. Hours pass before they finally circle back to the shop. Ford is thankfully done, waiting for them with a tapping foot and a questioning eyebrow, and they go out to eat (with some suspicious, crumpled up bills that Stan pulls out of his pocket, the thief) before heading back to the hotel. 

From there, Fiddleford goes about his nightly routine (a bit awkwardly, as he could never hold a roommate due to his inventing habits), but the twins don’t seem to notice. They just seem grateful for an actual bathroom and their nest of sheets and pillows on the floor. 

Once they finish reinforcing the salt barrier, the twins collapse into their nest, side by side, like it’s normal for them. Fiddleford gets into bed and turns off the light. He can hear their breathing, their movements in the dark, and eventually their snores. It keeps him awake until he’s too tired to care, and then it only brings him an odd sense of comfort. 

\-----

“Fidds, hey Fidds. Wake up.”

“Fiddleford, I’m afraid it’s time to get up.”

Fiddleford feels something softly shaking his shoulder, and bats away the movement. He’s tired and worn out and he just wants to sink back into sweet, blessed unconsciousness. 

“Sorry, Fiddleford, you gotta wake up.”

His body shakes, not by his own choice, and he can feel wakefulness creeping up on him. No, no! He tries to sink back into the dark. He knows in his very bones that it isn’t time to wake. 

“Fiddleford, this is the opportune time to hold the ceremony! You have to wake up!” 

“Gimme me a sec.” 

“Shit!” 

With no warning, Fiddleford is suddenly wide awake and  _ drenched _ . He wipes his eyes- ugh, did they splash water on him? 

“Here.” A pair of hands roughly shoves his glasses on his face. 

Fiddleford squawks indignantly and swats at the offensive hands before putting on his glasses like a civilized human being. He opens his eyes to see the twins standing in front of him and Fiddleford has to squint to make out their blurry outlines. He blinks the water out of his eyes and notes that it’s not just the water making them so hard to see. The room is dark and it is still nighttime. 

A time that sane, reasonable people would still be very much  _ asleep _ .

“Sorry, Fidds,” Stan says, like he knows exactly what Fiddleford’s thinking and feels, at the very least, a little bit of remorse for the rude awakening.

“It’s time to exorcise a ghost,” Ford adds gravely, clearly feeling no remorse whatsoever. 

As his eyes fully adjust to the darkness, Fiddleford notices that neither one of them are smiling. Suddenly, he’s struck by how serious they are. This isn’t just a lark or joke for them. They’re dressed and packed to the brim with supplies. 

Fiddleford nervously dries himself off. “Let’s do this, then.”

Before they leave the room, they prepare him. Stanford takes out a wicked-looking needle that makes Fiddleford’s eyes go wide, before Stanley slaps his twin away and pulls out a far less threatening permanent marker. 

“We’re going to draw some anti-evil symbols on ya. It’s a mixed bag of ‘look-away marks’ and anti-possession symbols. Normally we tattoo them on-”

Ford brandishes the needle proudly, and Stan rolls his eyes.

“-but we’ll just draw them on for ya. Keep in mind that they can rub off,” Stan warns, manhandling Fiddleford so he can get them all written down in the correct places. Fiddleford tries his best to be pliant, and tries to fend off a shiver at the odd feeling. 

“Do the two of you have them tattooed?” Fiddleford asks, in order to stave off the worst of the awkwardness. 

“Of course,” Ford says, as if it should be obvious. “In our career, it’s one of our most important defenses. See?”

Ford lifts up his shirt to reveal a plethora of tattoos over his torso (and over his tanned abs, Fiddleford can’t help but note). 

“O-oh.”

“Put that away, you’ll put someone’s eye out,” Stan says with a growl, his cheeks a bit red. 

“Stanley has them too, of course.” Ford puts down his shirt and yanks up Stan’s own shirt. 

Fiddleford catches sight of Stan’s tattooed back for a second (and his muscles and back hair) before the shirt is hastily pulled back down. 

“Come on, let’s go.”

\-----

They go out into the darkness and Fiddleford nervously holds his sleeves, trying not to rub his arms. He doesn’t know how well the symbols are working, but nothing attacks him so they must be doing something right. He follows the brothers into their car where they drive to one the mountains nearby. They leave the sparkling city behind and as they do, Fiddleford is able to see the stars. It’s beautiful. He hasn’t seen stars this bright since he was last in Tennessee.

Once they reach the mountain’s peak, he sits in the car with Stan while Ford gets out and starts drawing a circle in the dirt and lights some candles. 

Then Ford holds up a silver mirror and starts chanting. 

Fiddleford tries to listen to the words but they’re being carried off by the wind.

(He catches ‘I ain’t afraid of no ghostus’ and wonders if he’s hearing things incorrectly.) 

There are flashes at one point, the mirror coming to life with light every once in awhile, but Ford doesn’t look satisfied with a single one. Then he throws the mirror on the ground and the thing glows. He starts to throw salt violently while chanting, but each throw makes him look angrier. After a while of this, Ford finally stops and stands haggard over the mirror with harsh breaths. 

Stan turns his head slightly to eye Fiddleford and says, “It didn’t work.”

“Ah, that’s too bad,” Fiddleford says, feeling bad for the man who’s working so hard to help him and watching him flying into the bushes to retrieve a lit candle he’d accidentally kicked in his frustration. 

Stan shrugs, a small smile tugging on the corner of his lips as his dishevelled twin reappears in the clearing with an equally worse-for-wear candle. “We’ll move on to the next method.”

Ford comes back, grumbling about stubborn ghosts and pulling stray twigs and leaves from his curly hair. He dumps the mirror along with his candles in the car, and reemerges with a bottle. No, a  _ phial _ . 

Stan settles into his seat and folds his hands over his generous belly as he watches Ford return from whence he came. “We’re going to be here awhile.”

And wait they do. Ford appears to be just... _ sitting _ there, but Fiddleford knows better than to say anything impolite. So he follows Stan’s lead and gets more comfortable in his seat, preparing to wait whatever this is out. In fact, Fiddleford finds himself nodding off before Ford actually does something. It’s the first beam of light that wakes him, hitting him square in the eyes. Fiddleford squints as the sun rises and Ford does- something in the light. When the sun finally crosses the horizon, Ford is returning to the car, looking annoyed, but less angry than before. He gets in the front passenger’s seat and buckles up.

“I wasn’t successful,” he informs Fiddleford, rather unnecessarily. 

“Oh, no worries, Stanford,” Fiddleford automatically says. “Thanks for trying.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll exorcise them using the next method,” the man says confidently. 

It lifts Fiddleford’s spirits to hear him talk like that, but in the next moment he catches Stan’s eyes in the rear view mirror. He doesn’t look optimistic and Fiddleford’s heart sinks. 

Over the next few days, it would seem Stan’s doubt is warranted as the next few attempts don’t work out either. Ford pulls out materials of all sorts and tries his best, but each one invariably fails and, in some memorable cases, inexplicably causes the method to light on fire. Stan often has to put out the fires, and has taken to carrying around a fire extinguisher he’s procured from somewhere. Eventually they exhaust all other methods except for their last resort option: 

Fighting the ghost. 

It’s late, and they’ve decided to do this at 1am in the morning in a building that’s still undergoing construction. The surrounding areas are office buildings, and on this day and at this time, they’re totally unoccupied. 

“We’re right here next to ya, Fidds,” Stan says. “All I’m doing is rubbing away one of the symbols. I can draw it back on in a second once something funny happens or you can choose to step in the salt circle- either way, you’ll be fine.” 

“Don’t worry, Fiddleford. We’re professionals and I have all the weapons I need at my disposal,” Ford adds, a literal arsenal on his back, and lifts up a crossbow to illustrate his point. 

Fiddleford really doesn’t want to do this, but if they say this is the last shot he has at getting rid of his ghost, then he’ll have to give it a try. Although he’s really enjoying the twins’ company, he’s also feeling the mental strain from the haunting. He has a curfew. He has to share his room. He has to be mindful of the salt circle. And he’s worrying constantly over accidentally rubbing off his protection symbols (the tattoo’s are looking more appealing everyday). He just wants this to be over with. 

Fiddleford nods. “I’m ready.” 

He steps out of the salt circle. 

The room gets colder in an instant. There are wisps crawling towards them and lights in the distance flicker oddly. The hairs on the back of his neck stand up straight and the sound of Ford cocking his crossbow makes him jump. 

The wisps coalesce into the shape of a man and it screams at him. “FIDDLEFORD!!!”

Ford gets between them and holds up his phial. “Get back, I say!”

The phial is so bright that Fiddleford can barely look at him. (A brief thought passes through his mind, wondering if it’s a D, D, and More D, reference). He hears the ghost screech and Ford letting loose a bolt from the crossbow. 

However, a moment later the ghost is laughing and Ford is cursing. There are spots in his eyes and he can only make out the sounds out of breaking glass, cloth moving through the air, and the wind starting to howl. A firm hand yanks him backwards and his shirt is quickly being moved. He feels a symbol get drawn on his arm and the ghost screeches. Another body is pressed up against him, muscles taut and stance firm. 

When he can finally see again he almost yells at the sight of the ghost prowling around them. Stan is quick to press a rough hand over his mouth. The three of them are squeezed into the salt circle, holding their breaths. Stan gives him a subtle shake of the head. 

Oh boy, they’re going to be here for awhile. 

\-----

Eventually the ghost dissipates when morning dawns and Ford gives them the all clear so they can finally leave the circle. Fiddleford’s legs are like jelly when the twins release his arms and separate. The two men had been holding him up the whole night and he finds himself almost collapsing when their support is gone. They catch him before he has a chance to test his theory and help him into the car. 

“What do we do now?” He croaks. He had to keep silent the whole time they were hiding, but his throat feels raw and angry. He coughs and suddenly he feels like he’s been wrung dry. 

The twins share a look. 

“I actually do have one actual,  _ final  _ method to try,” Ford says, a look on his face that he doesn’t like. 

“I thought that was the final one?” Fiddleford asks, looking between the two twins who appear to be having a silent conversation between one another.

“Err, no.” Ford admits as he brings up a six-digit hand to rub nervously over the stubble on his chin. Stan stays silent and watches his brother with intense eyes that Fiddleford can’t read.

Fiddleford mentally flips through the contract in his mind. Let’s see, they tried the exorcism with the silver mirror, the holy water, the phial, the sage, the purified salt, the talismans, almost every hokey supernatural thing in the book-

No. 

“Not the cat.”

Stan heaves a heavy sigh and Ford nods slowly, regretfully. “Unfortunately.”

\-----

They pick a stray cat off the streets. It’s old and mangey and close to dying anyway and they saved it from certain death by shooing some other cats that were ganging up on it. Or at least, that’s what Fiddleford tells himself. Stan presents the pitiful creature to Ford, while Ford looks determined. 

Fiddleford is forced to stand in front of the cat while it’s being- being-  _ used _ , but thankfully does not have to keep his eyes open to face the reality of the situation. He’s going to have nightmares about this, ghost be damned. The yowl the cat makes before going silent is going to haunt his dreams more than this ghost will, he knows. 

Ford is professional through the whole thing and Stan is a steady presence by his side. 

At the end of it all, when Fiddleford can finally open his eyes, Ford shakes his head. 

Damn. The cat was sacrificed for nothing. 

Fiddleford is sure he’s going to hell for this. 

\-----

That evening, Stan offers to shell out money for them to drink their hearts out. Fiddleford sure feels like he needs a drink and he agrees. Ford makes a face, but also agrees. So Stan drives them back into the city. However, he doesn’t stop by a liquor shop like Fiddleford is expecting. 

They stop in front of a loud and decidingly flashy bar. 

“‘The White Swallow’,” Fiddleford says the name aloud. 

“Sounds like a rambunctious place,” Ford says. Fiddleford gives him a look and glances at Stan to see whether the man is serious or pretending not to understand the reference. Stan is grinning at him and shaking his head. 

Ford walks in with confidence. Some men leer at him, but the man either ignores them or just doesn’t notice. Fiddleford shoots Stan another look as they get shuffled in. Not that he’s uncomfortable, just the opposite really, but he’s not sure he should be in a crowded place. Not when the ghost is still a danger. 

He says so to Stan, even as the man is shelling out bills to pay for drinks. (Quite a few other men offer, but Stan, surprisingly, waves them off. ‘Don’t want to give the wrong impression,’ he says.) 

“Don’t worry about it, it’s only for one night,” Stan says, waving his drink around; a gin and tonic. (Fiddleford is a little jealous that Stan can get a normal drink while he keeps getting handed weak drinks with little umbrellas in them. To be fair, Ford is drinking cocktails too.)

“I dunno, Stan. Putting all of these people in danger-” A queen saunters past him, with a precession of others behind them, “-that doesn’t seem right.”

“I think we’ll be fine for one night,” Stan says, flippant. Then he spots Fiddleford’s expression and nudges him, expression turning a little more serious. “Hey, the ghost hasn’t hurt anyone else so far. Just relax for tonight. I think we’ll be okay. Ford probably weakened it with his last try, too.” 

He knows the words are supposed to reassure him, but Fiddleford doesn't know how truthful they are. Stan gives him a weak smile, half apologetic, like he knows Fiddleford doesn’t believe him, and half understanding. It’s the understanding that gets to him and he decides that one night won’t kill him (he hopes). But if it does, then he's going to make it a good night to die. 

He chugs the drink and asks for another, getting the attention of part of the club. Then it’s a haze of drinks, dancing, and Fiddleford even gives an impromptu lecture about something. Science, he’s sure. Maybe. He thinks Stanford helps him at one point and he remembers drawing diagrams on someone’s muscled back. 

When he wakes up, they’re in the hotel. His right arm is sore and he’s decidingly lacking clothes. He must have slept badly and kicked off his clothes last night. 

He sits up. Although his eyes are crusty and his mouth feels like something died in it, he’s surprisingly clear-headed. He remembers everything that happened last night, but the night was long and it’ll take a while to think about everything that happened. He’ll take a shower and maybe get to breakfast if he’s up early enough. 

However his awakened state allows him to immediately spot and recognize the tattooed symbol on his right bicep. 

“STAN!”

\-----

Stan hands over a coffee (premium blend, the biggest, most pretentious one the coffee shop offered) as Fiddleford continues to glare at him. Unfortunately, they did not wake early enough to catch breakfast, and as repayment for bringing Fiddleford to a tattoo shop while he was drunk, Stan was treating them. Fiddleford tries not to rub at the anti-possession tattoo on his arm. 

“You know, you should be thanking me,” Stan says with a grumble, as he dishes out pastries. 

“Say that to my sore arm. This is my dominant one too, and now it’s outta commision,” Fiddleford shoots back. 

Stan rolls his eyes. 

Fiddleford holds back the urge to roll his eyes as well. He is grudgingly grateful for the tattoo. He probably wouldn't have been able to handle the tattoo while sober and now he feels much safer with something permanent. Enough that he feels like he can walk out into the sunlight no problem. 

“Anyways! This is a good start to ‘Stan’s Specialty Exorcisms’!” Stan says with a flourish. 

“What.” 

“Well, Ford tries his best. But now it’s my turn,” Stan says with a big grin that spells out trouble. 

Fiddleford’s stomach sinks and he doesn’t think he can finish his breakfast. He thought that the cat was the last thing on the list (that was going to haunt him for years). What else could there possibly be?

\-----

Apparently, the answer is: quite a lot of bullshit. 

Stan cobbles together a mixture of odds and ends and combines them into a mass exorcism package. Fiddleford would think the whole thing was a sham if it weren’t for the fact that Stan managed to inadvertently kill some vampires that happened to be preying on the city using it. 

Unfortunately, his cure-all doesn't manage to finish off its intended target: the ghost. 

(The tattoo, however, works wonders. Fiddleford is hiding in plain sight in another salt circle, when Stan tries another summoning.) 

The next idea Stan has is an innocent sacrifice. 

Fiddleford vehemently protests this, the cat at the forefront of his mind, until Stan explains that an “innocent sacrifice” is just the genetic material from a willing donor). He managed to round up “material” from several people and essentially makes what is supposed to be a makeshift DNA “bomb” to dissolve the ghost. 

(Fiddleford worries about the “genetic material” until Stan gives him a shit-eating grin and tells him they went to the “White Swallow” for a reason. Fiddleford smacks him and calls him out of the bluff, saying there’s no way Stan could pull that off. Although mentailly Fiddleford can admit that it would be very possible for Stan to do so. Fiddleford tries not to blush as he pushes the thought out of his mind.)

They test it immediately that night and all it does is make the phantasm angrier. 

Then Stan suggests Fiddleford sacrifice himself. 

When Fiddleford finally emerges from the impromptu scuffle that follows (courtesy of a surprised and, if he’s not mistaken, impressed Ford) he’s proud to see Stan rubbing his abused gut and retaining an impressive shiner on his left eye. Of course, what Stan  _ means  _ is that he wants some clippings from Fiddleford (clippings!) and he’ll try a spell that will hopefully appease the ghost. 

Fiddleford is willing to try it, because all he’s seen the ghost do is become angrier and angrier after each try. So he cuts some of his hair, clips his nails, and spits into a cup to ‘sacrifice’. And then they try the ritual. 

He doesn’t know what he’s expecting, but the results of their latest endeavor are underwhelming at best. 

After this last attempt, they trudge back to the hotel in defeat. Ford sighs loudly when they enter the room. 

“Are you going to do it?” He asks. 

Stan scrubs his face. “Yeah. We have to try.”

Fiddleford looks between them. “What is it?” 

“The last method. It’s a doozy,” Ford says with a wince. 

“...Even worse than the cat?” Fiddleford asks. 

“No.” “Yes.”

“Oh god.”

\-----

“I’m definitely going to hell for this,” Fiddleford says aloud. 

“Join the party,” Stan says with a grunt. 

“Depends on the parameters. You could claim that digging up this grave is for self-defense,” Ford argues. 

“Semantics, Ford. This is pretty blasphemous, self-defense or not,” Stan says, upending more dirt. 

“Oh god,” Fiddleford says, not quite registering the conversation. 

Despite this, he continues to dig. 

Apparently the last ditch effort is digging up the body and burning it. Stan swears up and down it’s the most reliable method of getting rid of ghosts and he’s speaking from experience. (Fiddleford doesn’t know how he feels about this.) The only reason why they didn’t do this in the first place is because Ford finds it undignified (Fiddleford thinks it’s a little more than  _ undignified _ ) and the body had to be close (oh why did it have to be close, just outside the city and the nearby farms?). 

Fiddleford is creeped out, to say the least.

Grave-robbing is very much a crime and even if you didn’t believe in the supernatural, it just isn’t done. 

He’s expecting to be attacked any moment by  _ something _ , but it looks like the new tattoo continues to work its magic and nothing comes out when they reach the casket. There are maggots and other creepy crawlies in the dirt near the coffin and Fiddleford finds himself out of the hole faster than a roadrunner on blistering tarmac. Stan and Ford continue to scrape dirt out and the sound of the metal shovels bumping against the casket produces a hollow, wooden sound that makes Fiddleford’s stomach swoop every time he hears it. 

Eventually, they clear a hole large enough that there’s a clear path to the casket. Fiddleford risks a glance down and has a terrible case of vertigo. At night with limited light, the hole looks completely devoid of light, a dark void that will suck Fiddleford in. The dirty wood at the bottom looks ominous, along with the odd wriggling masses of insects. 

Fiddleford jumps at the sound of a wet  _ smack _ and realizes it’s Stan pouring something over the casket. That “something” being a whole bottle of alcohol. 

Stan gives him a shrug. “What? It’s cheap!”

Fiddleford shakes his head, the price of the booze the last thing on his mind. Although he doesn’t know why, because he supposes it’s better than gasoline. The whole situation is giving him a headache. 

Fiddleford doesn’t even flinch when Stan starts throwing a bunch of herbs and salt into the hole and mutters a few words. The words don’t make any sense though. 

“They’re a few prayers,” Ford whispers in his ear. The other man has stopped helping to allow Stan to take over this operation. “Just a few of the usual rites.”

After the prayers, the twins spit into the grave, and maybe it’s because of how serious they are that Fiddleford does the same. 

And maybe it’s a trick of the light, but Stan’s profile looks very solemn and respectful. 

Maybe even more so when he throws a match in and the whole thing bursts into flames. 

The heat is almost unbearable, Fiddleford has to throw an arm up in an attempt to block most of it, but he doesn’t look away. Somehow that wouldn’t be right. He has to observe the final moments of this grave that they dug up. 

The flames grow bigger and almost seem to thrash around with their quick movements, and a familiar voice passes by his ear. 

**_YOU WON’T GET RID OF ME_ **

William screeches and it’s like a cold and wet shadow passes through his middle. Fiddleford holds onto himself and finds himself shivering. 

Stan flinches and Ford waves at something invisible in the air. They come to him, but not before sharing a look. 

He’s afraid to ask, but he has to. 

“Did it work?” 

Ford gives him a pained look and Stan shakes his head. 

Fiddleford sighs. “I was afraid of that.”

\-----

They head back to the hotel in silence. When they arrive, they hustle a despondent Fiddleford back into the room. Luckily, the man is obedient and seems too tired to go against them. He falls asleep shortly after his head hits the pillow. 

However, Stan and Ford aren’t prepared to follow his lead. 

Stan pulls Ford aside. 

“What is it, Stanley?” Ford whispers. “Do you have another plan? Not to worry if you don’t, I have a few more experimental methods I could try.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I actually do have another plan,” Stan answers, very unlike himself. Normally he would scold Ford about using his full first name. And to Ford’s knowledge, Stan’s exhausted all of his potential exorcism ideas. He looks at Stan intently. 

Stan looks him straight in the eye. “How about we get outta here, right now,” he says, completely serious. 

“What!” 

“Shhhhh, shhh, come on, don’t be so loud,” Stanley hushes, as if he didn’t just suggest they leave a man to his death. That’s unexpectedly cold-hearted of his brother, who is normally the first to jump into the fray to save others. Especially cold-hearted considering how close they’ve gotten to Fiddleford in such a short amount of time. 

“You want to leave Fiddleford to deal with the poltergeist alone? What about the contract?” Ford asks. 

“There may or may not be a loophole in there,” Stan says with a shrug. “Honestly, with the tattoo he should be fine.” 

“Maybe against a level 5 ghost, but this is a level 9 or 10 poltregeist,” Ford says back. “I’m afraid if we leave Fiddleford-” 

He stops. They’ve both seen what happens to the victims of angry supernatural beings. 

“Listen, if we head out now, then the ghost won’t go after us,” Stan says in a rush. “As long as we put some distance between us and the city and never come back, then we’ll be fine. I can get the Stanley Mobile prepared in a second.”

“No,” Ford says, with a firm shake of his head. “I can’t just let an exceptional scientist like Fiddleford go to waste like this.”

Stan scoffs. “We’ve let plenty of people down.”

“But this would be the first time we willingly walked away from something that we started,” Ford says. And while the two of them weren’t heroes, they definitely didn’t abandon situations like this. He doesn’t understand why Stan is being so adamant about leaving. 

Stan grinds his teeth. “So you wanna stay- for Fiddleford. When you haven’t stayed before.”

Ford doesn’t even hesitate. “Yes. Yes I do.”

Stan throws his arms up and Ford has to take a step back so he doesn’t get smacked in the face. “Fine,” Stan grits out. “Let’s stay.”

“Fine,” Ford says, picking up on Stan’s horrible mood, scowling at the man. “I’ll start creating some alternative plans.”

“You do that.”

“I will.”

Stan’s expression twists. “I need to go out,” he says, already turning towards the door. 

Ford’s heart twinges when he sees his twin angrily turn his back on him. “Fine,” Ford repeats again. “I’ll just be here.”

Stan doesn’t reply and heads out, closing the door none too gently behind him. 

Ford continues to plan. He knows they can’t run away from this, that this is unlike any other case they’ve taken before. This is a class 9/10 ghost! Even if the ghost were to kill Fiddleford, it was unlikely to be sated with just one death. Most likely, the ghost would continue its path of bloody revenge and come after them. 

He can’t let that happen. An image of his brother comes unbidden to his mind’s eye: Stan grinning victoriously in the wake of a successful case, his eyes sparkling in the low light of sunset and his gravelly laugh infectious. 

Ford shakes his head slightly and bends over his half-formed plans with renewed resolve. He and Stan are going to survive this, even if he had to beat the ghost with his bare hands. 

\----

Stan stomps out of the room and decides to take the stairs down. He needs to get some of his frustration out. Leave? Of course he isn’t going to leave without Ford.

This was never about leaving so he could save his own hide, it was always about saving Ford’s. 

He couldn’t care less about himself, but he doesn’t think he could live with himself if Ford was gone-

Stan shakes his head. 

There was no time to think about that. If Ford wasn’t going to run, then they needed to defeat the ghost. Stan was going to have to figure out some way to help that he hadn’t before. He flashes back to the plans Ford was drawing up. He’ll scrounge up some supplies and resources first. 

\-----

Thankfully, Fiddleford sleeps through the whole conversation. 

\-----

Fiddleford wakes up tired. 

“Morning, Fiddleford,” Ford says, holding a cup of coffee under his nose. “Well, good afternoon I suppose.”

Good afternoon? “What time is it?” Fiddleford asks, fumbling for his glasses. 

“Oh, not too late. It’s only ten after noon,” Ford says, absently. 

Once his glasses are on, Fiddleford confirms that it’s 12:11pm. They did get back late, so he guesses that it’s not unreasonable for him to have slept in till noon. However, he still feels like a layabout, especially since his life is on the line. Fiddleford quickly drinks the coffee. After all, here Ford is working hard…

Fiddleford finally takes a good look at Ford. 

The man has tons of papers spread out in front of him and is muttering, running his hands over the plans in front of him. Ford is wearing the same clothes as the night before and when he turns, Fiddleford can see that the man hasn’t shaved and has heavy bags under his eyes. Did Ford sleep at all?

“Ford, did you get any sleep?” Fiddleford asks. 

“Nope!” Ford says, a bit too loudly. “I’ve been planning all night.”

Fiddleford’s lips twist down into a disapproving frown. “What about Stan? Where’s he?”

Ford glances at him nervously, before replying, “I don’t know. I haven’t seen him since yesterday.”

There’s a story there, although Fiddleford finds that he doesn’t want to ask about it. Okay, first thing’s first, get Ford to sleep, then find Stan. 

Ford is easy enough to handle. All Fiddleford has to do is trick Ford into laying down and he’s out like a light. He’s about to go find Stan, when he gets caught up in the plans that Ford has made. Scribbled over all them are theories and blueprints for possible traps and weapons. Fiddleford reads them all and finds himself formulating additions of his own. Before he knows it, Fiddleford is creating his own blueprints alongside Ford’s. 

He’s pulled out of his thoughts sometime much later when he hears the door open. 

“Oh, you’re awake, Fidds?” 

Fiddleford turns to see Stan coming through the door with an armful of- stuff. There’s sheets of metal in there, some bits and baubles, wires, and a vacuum? He puts all of it in the corner with a heap of junk that Fiddleford hadn’t noticed before. 

“And Ford’s sleeping? Good- that’s good. He stayed up all night, you know?” Stan says, quieter. After he puts the stuff down, he turns to look at Fiddleford-

And Fiddleford sees almost the same unshaven face and tired eyes on Stan. The man must have also stayed the whole night away, trying to help out. Fiddleford sighs. 

Stan isn’t quite so gullible and doesn’t allow himself to be tricked into sleep. However, once Fiddleford promises not to leave the room (Stan brought food up ages ago), Stan becomes much more willing to get a little shut-eye. He also lets Fiddleford have access to some of Ford’s journals before bedding down next to his brother. Stan falls asleep as soon as his head hits the pillow. 

The two of them snore away, squeezed together on the bed, and Fiddleford feels an overwhelming amount of affection for the twins. 

They’ve done all that they can for him. 

Now it’s his turn. 

\-----

Ford wakes up first, slowly. He blinks awake and pulls himself from slumber. It’s difficult though. The bed is warm and he’s bone-tired. He must have stayed up on a science binge before he fell asleep. 

But the thought of having left whatever project he’d been working on unfinished keeps him from returning to sweet, blissful unconsciousness. 

He opens his eyes to see Stan’s peaceful face snoring away inches from him. He wakes up fully now that he’s aware of his brother by his side. His breathing is loud, right in his ear, and he’s taking in big gulps of air that practically move the bed with each inhale and exhale. One of his arms is wrapped around Ford’s waist and now that he notices, it’s very heavy and very warm. 

He fidgets and the arm tightens more securely around him. 

Well, he knows how much of a heavy sleeper his brother can be so Ford resigns himself to staying there until his Stanley wakes. 

In the meantime, he takes the opportunity to look unabashedly at Stan. 

They may be twins, but Ford is acutely aware of how Stan has grown differently than himself. The man has a defined jaw, a crooked nose (probably from being broken so many times), and a luxurious mane of hair. He’s classically handsome, and if it weren’t for the rather tumultuous life they led, Ford would bet that Stan would do well in the film industry. Honestly, it felt like Stan could do well anywhere and at anything with his quick wit and handsome face, but he didn’t choose just anything. Stan decided to stay with  _ him _ . 

After the first time the two of them had encountered an anomaly, Ford knew that that was where his path in life led. He was just very lucky to have Stan come with him too. He was very grateful to his brother, although he would never admit it aloud. They worked best as a team. And Ford just knew that as long as he put all of his intellect into coming up with a solution, then they would be able to win against this anomaly. That was one of the reasons why Ford wanted to stay and fight.

Maybe afterward, they could think about running away together, in a different sense. Maybe they could take a trip like this, calm and serene with just each other for company. Not a trip that had to do with deadly ghosts, no, but a trip where they relaxed more and didn’t go looking for trouble. Or maybe more research trips where they didn’t have to fight for their lives. 

Trips where they could...relax. 

Yes, that was a sound idea. Maybe when this was all over, he could suggest it to Stan. A vacation, just the two of them. 

\-----

Stan wakes up immediately, alert and ready to jump into action- 

When he realizes he’s still in the hotel room. He allows himself to relax and try to get his beating heart in order. After years of fighting spooky shit, he’d always been quick to wake up. More often than he’d like to admit, it could be the difference between getting the first hit in or dying. 

Stan cracks open an eyelid surreptitiously to see what’s up. 

Ford is sleeping in front of him, snoozing away like a baby. The man was always a deep sleeper, going into comas after a science binge. Stan could probably do anything he wanted to the man, short of yelling at him, and Ford still wouldn’t wake up. 

For now, he’ll just settle with staring at him, and wondering why he was so stubborn. All Stan wanted was for them to survive. He knew it might sound like a coward’s way out sometimes, but dammit, it wasn’t time for them to die. 

There were still a lot of things they had to accomplish, and a lot of things that Stan wanted to do. 

Stan tenses at the thought of one specific thing he had yet to do and accidentally squeezes Ford too hard. He hadn’t realized he had an arm and a leg wrapped around his brother. He moves his leg away, although he was too late in moving his arm. Ford comes closer to him in his sleep. 

Then the man takes in a deep breath, and starts blinking awake.

Stan quickly pretends to sleep, even throwing in a fake snore for good measure. 

It seems like forever until Ford’s breath hitches, which indicates to Stan that the man was awake. Stan expects that Ford will get up and continue his project. Stan managed to scrounge up a lot of raw materials earlier, so as soon as Ford caught sight of it, he was sure that he would dive straight into science. 

That’s what Stan expects, anyway. Ford surprises him by staying in bed. He doesn’t know what his brother is doing, only that he’s awake and still in Stan’s half embrace. 

Is he looking at Stan? Is he half awake? Is he thinking without actually looking anywhere? 

Ford breathes out gently and the soft sigh causes the hair on Stan’s face to ripple. 

He unconsciously tightens his arm. 

Still, that doesn’t cause Ford to react. 

They stay like that, Ford doing...something, while Stan continues his “fake sleep” act. 

A screech of metal against metal startles them both so badly that they almost fall out of bed. 

What was that?!

\-----

Fiddleford feels apologetic when he sees that he’s woken the twins up. Really he would have liked for them to sleep in, since he could do most everything on his own, but because they’re awake he figures they can get breakfast together. Stan fumbles out of the sheets while Ford sits up with far more grace. 

“You guys are just in time for breakfast,” Fiddleford says. 

They both turn to him as if just noticing that he’s in the room. They’ve been asleep for at least ten hours (Ford has been sleeping longer), but they both look tired, and the bags under their eyes haven’t disappeared at all. 

“Right, breakfast. Most important meal of the day,” Stan mutters, shaking his head. He seems to wake up a bit more after smacking himself a few times and gets ready in seconds. 

Ford, on the other hand, takes a little longer. He looks slowly back and forth between Fiddleford and Stan, before he rubs at his side and gets out of bed. 

They go to breakfast, eat, and then come back to the hotel room. 

It’s only then, with breakfast warm and filling their bellies, that the boys notice Fiddleford’s new invention. 

“Fidds? What the hell is that?” 

“It looks like an interdimensional portal, quite impressive, and a...vacuum cleaner?”

“Yup! This is my new ghost-fighting machine!” Fiddleford gestures to the new equipment.

On the table are a new generation of paranormal hunting machines. Fiddleford had spent the night reading up everything that Stan and Ford had learned so far, and did his best to combine Ford’s theories and Stan’s experience, with his expertise in machinery. What he had made was a compact interdimensional storage space that could be opened and closed. Along with a custom-made tool, a hose that would shoot out an energy beam that could affect ghosts (unfortunately, the packs that generated this energy were quite large and cumbersome and were the size of backpacks), and the ghosts could be manipulated into the storage space to be dealt with at a later time. (Perhaps they could be funneled into a separate dimension? He hadn’t gotten that far. He could solve that problem afterwards.)

He explains the science behind it all to an engrossed Ford and who nods at his words, ooh-ing and ah-ing at the appropriate points. Stan just hefts the pack and hose and practices using it against invisible enemies. 

“So it’s a ghost-busting machine?” He throws his hair over his shoulder, as he strikes a rather dynamic pose with the hose of the machine held aloft.

Ford sighs and Fiddleford smiles, kind of liking the name. “Pretty much. It’s only designed for ghosts at the moment.”

“Come here and show me a little more how it works,” Stan says. 

Ford looks enraptured in the science behind the new toys, so Fiddleford goes over to give Stan a hand, and shows him the mechanism and how it should theoretically work. 

“So it ‘grabs’ ghosts?” 

“That’s what I theorize it should do. You know how ghosts are intangible? The energy from the ah- ‘ghostbuster’ should affect the ghost, so the ghost will be caught in the energy ‘stream’. Then we wrangle it into our interdimensional storage unit.”

“Got it. So push the ghost into the box. I’ve had to do that before,” Stan says, moving the hose around, getting used to its weight. 

Fiddleford rolls his eyes. He’s gotten used to Stan’s dismissive attitude towards ghost hunting now that he’s gotten to know the man and he knows that Stan likes to simplify things just to rile up the scientists. 

“Oh, that’s right! I wanted to return your notes,” Fiddleford says, before going to do just that. He places Ford’s journals next to him, while returning Stan’s own smaller black book. “They were quite...interesting.” 

Stan snorts and he’s grinning wryly. “Tell me what you really think, why don’cha.” 

“Well, you two seem to have had quite a few close encounters,” Fiddleford says, hesitant. Not just close encounters with the supernatural, but a few especially close calls from Ford’s journals rattled him. Stan’s own notes painted a very different, less optimistic picture, which rattled Fiddleford even more. 

“Ford likes to think we’re experts, but we’ve been succeeding through sheer willpower, old wives' tales and chutzpah,” Stan says, winking. 

Fiddleford gives Stan a look. “How are you two still alive?” He asks, slightly exasperated. 

“Dumb luck,” Stan says with a careless shrug. Then he sees Fiddleford’s face and adds, “And experience. We’ve been doing this for awhile now. Don’t worry. If anyone’s going to bust this ghost it’s gonna be us!” 

Surprisingly, the words reassure Fiddleford. Creating a machine that would defeat the ghost when all else had failed, that was a lot of pressure. But he realized now that all he had to do was create a machine that did the thing and the Pines twins would take care of the rest. 

“Thanks. I’m really glad you two have my back,” Fiddleford says, sincere. 

Stan’s grin falters for a second, before coming back bright. He slings an arm around Fiddleford’s shoulders and shakes him. “Don’t worry, this’ll be all over soon.”

\-----

They decide (well Fiddleford does) to have their final confrontation in a half-constructed building. They had already pushed all the squatters out of the area and made sure there wasn’t too much equipment that the ghost could possess. Fiddleford’s reasoning was that there was no one around, but there was still light from the city, unlike out in the middle of nowhere. 

The Stan Mobile gets parked farther away so it won’t get possessed and they start setting up. 

When they’re finally outfitted, it seems fitting that a frigid gale of wind comes out of nowhere to sweep through their hair and chill their spines. The wind howls in their ears and Fiddleford swears that he can hear the sound of laughter mixed in. Finally, a silver mist swirls, coalescing into something vaguely human. 

Stan immediately gets in front of the others as William’s form sharpens out of the mist. Fiddleford falters when he sees him. William has changed since their last encounter. Fiddleford had a hunch that the man had been changing with each failed exorcism, but now, he was certain. 

He was vaguely human shaped, but larger, as if he was stretched. The wounds from his death were sickeningly exaggerated and looked even more horrific than before. The ghost’s body bulged in odd areas, making him look distinctly monstrous and his eyes glittered in a way that was neither sane nor human.

“Why Fiddleford,” the  _ thing _ coos. “You’ve made something just for me. You shouldn’t have!” 

“Eat this! Paranormal scum!” Ford yells, shattering the malevolent mood that had descended upon them along with the ghost. He starts firing his arrows and Stan dashes to the side and starts firing off his ghostbuster. Fiddleford ducks for cover behind a half-constructed, cement wall. He has the storage unit gripped in a tense fist, ready to be activated. 

That had been the plan. Since Fiddleford was the target, it would be best that he hide and make sure the box (of which there was only one) was ready. Stan and Ford would harass the ghost and weaken it until it could be funneled into the unit. 

Fiddleford peeks out of his hiding spot. Ford has thrown away his crossbow and is using his pack to chase the ghost around. Unfortunately, with its unwieldy nature, the ghost was able to dodge the beam. However, Stan is making some headway. He fires off the hose in bursts (not Fiddleford’s intended use, but whatever worked), hitting the ghost occasionally, making him hiss in pain, and it looked like it was doing a good job of making the ghost unable to turn incorporeal. 

The ghost swoops towards Stan, and Stan manages to dodge by dropping to the floor. Then the ghost takes a swipe at Ford, who immediately starts shooting. Unfortunately, he’s unable to dodge like Stan does and takes a heavy blow to his chest. 

Ford ends up shooting high at the ceiling and Ford holds it there for only a moment-

When the ceiling starts to vibrate and explode-

Over Stan’s head. 

Fiddleford gasps and Ford’s eyes widen, but Stan just whips out his pack, and uses the beam to break up the chunk of cement that’s falling around him. The cement is decimated, but Fiddleford worries as some rather large pieces bash against Stan’s raised arms. The ghost takes it upon himself to use this chance to attack, but this time, Ford is prepared. 

He lines up his shot and manages to capture the ghost in his beam. 

“Nice, Ford!” Stan gets up shakily. Then he starts up his own beam, and the two beams cross-

BOOM

The resulting explosion shorts out all the lights in the building and then some, and Fiddleford can see part of the town go dark. 

Shit. 

It was a possibility that crossing the streams would have adverse effects, but he didn’t think it would be this bad. Fiddleford blinks out the dust in his eyes and tries to look around. Ford and Stan are on the ground while the ghost is a mass of melted silver hovering pitifully a few inches off the ground, unable to hold its original form. 

Fiddleford dashes out of his hiding spot. When he gets close enough he slides the interdimensional storage unit under the ghost and opens it. Immediately the ghost starts getting pulled downwards and Fiddleford thinks it’s the end-

“NO!” 

William bellows, the force of his voice pushing Fiddleford off his feet and back. The ghost coalesces into a solid form again and swipes the storage unit away. The pushback combined with the blow tugs the line for the storage unit out of his hand. William hadn’t been as weak as he’d thought!

The ghost comes for him and he holds his arms out in a poor attempt to shield himself-

When another beam of energy hits the ghost square in the face. 

“Take this, ghost scum!” Ford yells. 

Unfortunately, the ghost slips away and starts dodging the beam. The ghost yells, its mouth getting impossibly huge, ignoring Fiddlford altogether to go after Ford. Fiddleford can see the point where Ford realizes he can’t get away, can’t shoot the ghost- his eyes widen and he moves, but not fast enough. 

The ghost swoops down-

-Stan tackles Ford from the side- 

-The ghost crunches down on Stan’s back and Stan  _ screams _ . 

The pack explodes on Stan’s back, and his scream cuts off abruptly. As soon as Fiddleford’s eyes stop seeing spots he locks onto Ford stripping the burning mess off his brother’s back, heedless of any potential scalding to his hands. 

“Stan! Stan!” His cries are leaning towards hysterical and he clutches his brother, whose back is a mess of burns and oozing flesh. 

The wind howls and Fiddleford sees the ghost coalescing again. William looks weakened and Fiddleford realizes that this is his only chance. He dashes for the storage box and slides it below the ghost. Then he hefts his own pack and fires. The ghost screeches and its cries are terrible, like that of a tortured animal, the sound intermingling with Ford’s sobs and Stan’s moans of pain. Fiddleford hangs on for dear life, even though his arms are shaking from the strain of keeping the beam steady. God, it’s so much more difficult to use than he thought. He’s surprised that the twins were able to utilize it as effectively as they did and made it look easy. 

His brain recalls the grin Stan had given him beforehand. ‘Had his back’ indeed. 

Well, it was his turn. 

He locks his arms and opens up the storage unit. Immediately the beam and the ghost start to pull downwards, but the ghost fights it, tooth and nail. 

The portal sucks the ghost downward, stretching its features, making it look more inhuman by the second. Fiddleford holds back a wince at the sight and slowly lowers the beam until finally the ghost can’t fight the pull any longer. In one moment, he’s fighting tooth and nail to hold the ghost steady - and in the next the ghost is sucked up, the box closes, and Fiddleford flops back as all tension ceases. He immediately cuts the beam off and collapses on a heap in the ground. 

The box smokes, but doesn’t open again. 

He did it. 

He got the ghost. 

Fiddleford pants into the ground and slowly turns his head. What about the others?

\-----

Ford can barely take his eyes off of Stan, but he knows he needs to keep an eye on the ghost. In his peripheral vision, he watches as Fiddleford manages to catch the ghost all on his own. 

When the storage unit closes, Ford turns back to Stan. 

Stan, who took a hit meant for  _ him _ . 

Now that the ghost is gone, he can finally take care of him. Ford takes off his pack, and his jacket, and creates a makeshift pillow for his brother. He then gently eases Stanley so he’s laying on his stomach and Stan groans at the movement. 

His normally stoic brother, who tries so hard to keep a brave face, openly hisses in pain. 

Ford takes another look at Stan’s back and it’s just a mess. There are pieces of flesh that were gouged out from the ghost’s maw, punctures from the explosion of the pack, burns litter his back, and where it hasn’t burnt, it’s oozing blood everywhere. Ford can even smell the unmistakable stench of burnt flesh and fabric, shit, some of Stan’s hair was burnt off too. Ford quickly checks to make sure that his neck and head didn’t take too much damage. 

Stan leans into the touch and his eyes open. They’re unfocused and are unseeing. 

“Ford?” Stan rasps, as if he can’t see even though his eyes are open-

“I’m here, Stan. I’m here,” Ford says, shakily. He knows they need to get to a doctor now, but he can’t bear to leave his side right now. 

“You alright?” Stan asks, the words slurred. That’s not a good sign at all. And why was the man worrying about  _ him _ !?!  _ He  _ was the one whose back was literally burnt to a crisp!

“I’m fine,” Ford replies, incredulous, unable to keep the building hysteria out of his voice. “But, Stan- you’re...you’re-”

“As long as you’re okay.” Stan says, smiling crookedly, the way he always did when he was protecting Ford. 

“No, but, you’re not okay- Stan, I-” Ford accidentally brushes up against him, which causes Stan to wince and struggle. Some of his burns start ripping open and oozing blood. “I- have to get you to a hospital!”

Stan chuckles, the sound wet. Then he lets out a cough and a gurgle. 

Shit! Shit! He needs to get Stan to a hospital right away- Ford slings the man over his shoulder, he’s too weak to carry him otherwise. Stan lets out a whine. Then he turns and books it back to their car. 

“I’ll drive!” Fiddleford says, right at his heels. 

Somehow they make it to the car. For a few agonizing minutes, Ford has to rifle around Stan’s pockets for the keys before they can get into the car. Ford puts Stan in the back. Shit. His pulse is weak and the man isn’t speaking anymore. Instead, Stan seems to be putting all his effort into breathing, though the breaths are shallow and pained. 

Fiddleford immediately starts the car and it shoots forward. 

“Stan,” Ford says, helpless. He doesn’t know what else to do or say. 

“I’m fine,” Stan rasps. His voice is too soft. 

Stan moves his head and Ford immediately shuffles around in the front passenger’s seat to turn around and gently encases his skull in order to stop Stan from moving. “Don’t! You’ll hurt yourself, Stan!”

Stan ignores him and moves his head until he sets his unfocused eyes on Ford’s. “All you have to do is take care of yourself,” Stan says, every word getting quieter as if he has to drag them out of himself. “Don’t worry about me.”

“Don’t worry about you!” Ford repeats, his voice getting louder. “Don’t- you’re bleeding out, you idiot!” 

“I know,” Stan says, with a small wry smile. “That’s why I want you to take care of yourself.”

Ford understands immediately what Stanley means. “No!” He yells. Despite his protests, Stan’s eyes start to flutter close. “No, no, no, NO! Stan!”

However, Stan doesn’t react to his yelling. His breathing starts to slow and his head starts to roll away. 

Ford starts to plead harder, “No! Stan! Stay with me! Please! I love you!”

The words come out of his mouth before he can stop himself, but come out they do. However, he doesn’t have the time to panic, because even through his suddenly watery vision he can see that Stan’s slipping out of consciousness. Ford continues to yell, bargain, and plead with the man until they get to the hospital. (And maybe says ‘I love you’ a few more times too.)

\-----

It’s second nature for Stan to take the hit for Ford. He doesn’t even think, just moves, so that he’s in front of him. His back explodes (literally), but all he can think about is how he took the hit for Ford and how Ford will live to see another day. 

He goes in and out of consciousness, but when he sees Ford sobbing over him he figures that the ghost must have been defeated. The relief is palpable and so is the pain. Originally his body was stiff, but now he can feel the throbbing pain and odd numbness of his body. Must be burned. He’s felt this pain before, and the numbness is probably from his flesh being burnt to a crisp. He wonders what sorts of new scars he’ll have now. 

Then something on his back cracks and it feels like his life starts oozing out of the opening. Shit, that’s bad. He’s had some close calls in the past, but it’s starting to feel like this one might be his closest. 

Ford continues to talk to him and the words come in and out like a radio. Stan manages to babble something to him. He keeps on smiling as if he can’t tell he’s dying. If he is, he doesn’t want Ford to worry. It can’t be helped. He’ll fight if he can, but has no illusions about winning out over his own dying body. 

Then Ford throws him over his shoulder, and the motion jostles him and for a moment he’s gone. 

He only comes back a sometime later when he hears his beloved Stanley Mobile turn on. He’s in the backseat of the car, and Ford has turned around and is clutching onto him. 

“I’m fine,” he chokes out. 

Ford says something, but Stan can hardly hear him. The pain is too strong and almost every sound is drowned out by his own heartbeat in his ears. 

“Don’t worry about me,” Stan adds, dragging the words out of his lungs. 

“Don’t worry-” Ford says something else, but Stan doesn’t catch all of it. “-bleeding, --- idiot!” 

If he could chuckle, he would, so all he does is smile for Ford. “I know. That’s why I want you to take care of yourself,” he says, hoping Ford will finally get the big picture. For such a smart guy, he could be such a dumbass. He tries to drag the words out, to tell him he shouldn’t worry when Stan already knows he’s a goner, but the words catch in his throat. 

The familiar coppery tang of blood is on his tongue and his lungs feel full of something other than air. Guess his time’s up. 

Ford finally notices and starts yelling. “No!” “No, ---- no, ----- NO! Stan!”

But Stan is already fading. He can barely keep his eyes open, let alone stay awake any longer, although the yelling helps. He goes in and out again, but the blood loss must be catching up to him because somehow he thinks he hears Ford sobbing, and saying ‘I love you’. 

\-----

It’s been over three days, since Stan was last awake. Over 75 hours and 12 minutes. (It wasn’t obsessive as long as he wasn’t keeping track of the seconds.) 

After Stan had dropped unconscious in the car, Fiddleford had booked it to the hospital in record time. They managed to send Stan through surgery quickly, but the damage had been extensive. Burns to nearly every area in the back of his body, not to mention the shock and damage from having what was essentially an explosive go off on his back. 

Ford had donated his blood as soon as they had requested it. 

He had been in near shock, but consented to the process. The nurses had carefully inserted the IV, something he wouldn’t normally allow, but he had let them because he didn’t think he could do it himself. He sat still, watching as the machine took his blood and filtered it over to his brother. 

It’s the least he can do after Stan took a blow that was meant for Ford. 

Damn his eidetic memory. He’ll never be able to forget the look of agony on Stan’s face, or the cry he let out when he jumped in front of him- 

And damn his big mouth for allowing the event to shake loose one of his biggest secrets. 

Shit, he still can’t believe that he admitted his feelings aloud to Stan. 

Maybe the man didn’t hear him. Maybe he misheard. Maybe he could interpret it as something just a family member would say. 

Maybe Stan would never wake up. 

Ford shakes his head. He can't allow himself to think that way. Stanley is recovering. His brain scans are fine (Ford had personally checked), and his body is on the way to recovery. He is just- still sleeping. 

“Phew, what, did a skunk get into the hospital or sumthin’?” 

The familiar voice makes Ford jump. 

Fiddleford. 

Ford immediately tenses. 

Fuck. He had confessed in front of Fiddleford, too. Maybe the man didn’t interpret him correctly? No, he couldn’t insult his intelligence. It was unlikely that Fiddleford didn’t understand his meaning, considering the force of emotion behind it. 

Then he registers the man’s comment. 

“Are you saying I smell?”

“That is exactly what I’m saying,” Fiddleford says, with a pat on his shoulder. The contact is gentle, understanding. 

Ford watches in confusion as the man grabs a chair and settles next to Stan’s bedside. 

“What are you doing?” Ford asks. 

Fiddleford pulls out a magazine and spreads it out before saying, “I’m taking over for you. They’ve finally allowed visitors who aren’t blood relations, and you need a shower and to eat, preferably in that order.”

Ford’s stomach clenches at the thought of food. 

“I can’t,” he says. 

“Nope, not having any of that. You, mister, will go back to the hotel, take a shower, and gorge yourself on the breakfast buffet. After that, then you may be able to come back,” Fiddleford says, with a pointed look. Ford hates to admit it, but that pointed brow makes him wither. 

No, even the opinion of a fellow scientist can’t make Ford back down from staying with Stan. He’ll just have to put his foot down-

“Oh, and you’ll have to consider what to say to Stan when he wakes up. I’ll leave as soon as that happens so that the two of you can talk,” Fiddleford continues. This time, his expression morphs into understanding- but understanding of what? The man can’t possibly- does he- Ford had considered the possibility of Fiddleford understanding his meaning-

“Go take that shower, Ford.”

The tone brokers no arguments. And Ford takes it like the excuse that it is, to run away. He speeds out of the hospital, trying to put as much distance as he can between himself and Fiddleford. 

He knows. 

His heart leaps. Shit- he’s leaving Stan behind. 

Ford turns back to look at the hospital, but the thought of Fiddleford (who knows his secrets), has him continuing on his way. Shower. Food. A change of clothes. He’ll accomplish all of these tasks quickly before heading back to Stan’s bedside. 

But when he reaches the shower, he finds himself losing time. A half hour in the shower, an hour and a half at the breakfast buffet, and when he opens his eyes to find himself staring at the ceiling, he realizes he’s fallen asleep. 

Ford immediately sits up. 

The time is- 

It’s only 10. Thank goodness. It hasn't been too long since he fell asleep. 

Well, how about that. 

Ford gets up from the bed and stretches. He’s not quite up to par, but the nap was certainly refreshing. He feels loose, but in a good way. He’s ready to go back to Stan’s bedside and settle in for the long haul. 

Perhaps another hot shower would do him some good, loosen up his muscles further. Ford starts undressing again, but forgets to take his glasses off beforehand. He chuckles, and leaves them on the bed stand next to the clock. 

Ford does a double take. 

...10pm. 

Ford curses and rushes to throw on his clothing. The hospital visiting hours are definitely over, but if he’s lucky, he might catch the tail end of an emergency and sneak in through the window. He’s out of the hotel and booking it down the sidewalk in a matter of minutes. Thankfully, the hospital is surrounded by trees, so he’s able to hide in the shadows until he sees an open window. 

Then it’s a matter of climbing through and navigating his way to Stan’s room. He hopes his brother isn’t awake yet. He promised himself that he would be there when Stan woke up. 

Unfortunately, the hospital seems rather crowded and Ford finds himself diving into a linen closet to escape detection. He doubts that the staff would be able to stop him, but he doesn’t want to affect Stan’s recovery with his actions. So instead of waiting, Ford lifts up a panel of ceiling and starts army crawling. 

The journey goes by surprisingly quickly and Ford finds himself above Stan’s room in good time. He can hear the low drawl of Fiddleford’s southern accent and he hopes that the man is talking aloud to himself, as opposed to Stan. 

But when he gets closer he discovers there’s no such luck for him, because he hears the familiar gravelly baritone of his brother’s voice. 

“...-ou didn’t hear incorrectly, Stan. I heard him say it too.”

Ford freezes. 

“Really?” Stan’s voice sounds a bit nasally and desperate. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.” 

Stan is silent and Ford strains for the next words. God, they could be talking about anything, like a television show, or what a doctor said, but Ford knows in his bones that they are talking about his own words to Stan, those nights ago. 

When he admitted to... Well, he hopes they’re not talking about him. 

“Stan?” Fiddleford asks gently. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Stan rasps. “It’s just not everyday that your twin brother admits to being in love with me.” 

Ford almost falls through the ceiling. 

There’s the sound of a chair scraping against the floor. “...And how does that make you feel?”

“...”

Stan doesn’t answer and Ford is scared to hear what his brother is about to say next. 

“I’m wondering if I dreamed it,” Stan says, his voice quiet. 

“Well, you didn’t,” Fiddleford pipes up. 

“Yeah. You’re right, I didn’t.”

The room falls into silence again and Ford has to hold onto himself to keep himself in that spot in the ceiling. He’s gnawing on his lip and squeezing his hands into fists so tight, he’s sure he’ll draw blood soon. 

If Stan’s about to say how disgusted he is, Ford would prefer to be put out of his misery quickly. 

But to Ford’s surprise, it’s Fiddleford who talks first:

“I’m glad for the two of ya.” 

“What?”

“What?”

Ford slaps a hand over his mouth, but luckily Stan was louder. 

“I’m glad you have each other,” Fiddleford says. 

“That’s... Fidds, that’s not exactly what- ...You know what, thanks. I appreciate your kind words.”

There’s the sound of a light smack, probably Fiddleford slapping Stan’s knee at his impertinent words. 

“Stanley Pines! I know exactly the meaning of Stanford’s words. He loves you! And not just in a brotherly sense.” 

The room falls silent again. And Ford swallows. He figured that Fiddleford would be too keen to not notice Ford’s words for what they really were, but to know that Fiddleford knows; it’s almost too much. He can feel his ears heat and his stomach clench in embarrassment.

“...And I’m glad for the two of you. There aren’t many with a relationship like yours and it would be a crying shame for something like this to tear you apart. You feel the same way, don’t you?”

Stan doesn’t even hesitate. “Yeah, I do.”

“Good! This is a good thing!”

“No, it’s not a good thing, Fidds. I- I dunno. Things have always worked, because we’ve kept things the same. I’ve never wanted more from Ford, but if we do...do something about, you know, then I’d want more. And he’d want more. And I don’t know if things will work out,” Stan confesses. 

Ford nods along. It’s one of his own worries, as well. He and Stan worked so perfectly because they haven't changed a thing since they were kids. Changing things now, even if it might make them happy in the moment, might be disastrous. Better to keep things the same, then to ruin everything they’ve built together. 

“That is the stupidest damn thing I’ve ever heard.” 

“Huh?”

“So what? You two are just going to stick your heads in the sand forever? That’s how you get your ass roasted, by the way.”

“Uh- nice visual-”

“The two of you have something really special going on, and you just want to look away? What a waste.”

The man scoffs.

“The two of you fight monsters for goodness sake! And you think that something like societal conventions is enough to call it quits? I’m pretty sure that’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.” 

“Fighting monsters is the easy part-”

“We just defeated a ghost by sucking it into another dimension. Don’t try and argue with me.”

“When you put it that way…”

Fiddleford sighs. 

“Listen. I know we haven’t known each other for very long... But I feel like we’ve connected.”

What?

Ford smothers his mouth with a hand. There’s no way- his brother is very handsome- and, they did talk about something without him during the trip to the club- and Fiddleford is so intelligent! Ford is on par with him, but apparently eccentric scientists are in Stan’s interests. 

“Uh- Fidds, no offense, but we were just talking about my feelings for my brother-”

“Not like that,” Fiddleford snaps. 

Ford breathes a sigh of relief. 

Fiddleford also sighs, but his sounds weary. 

“You’ve felt it before. Like an outsider looking in.”

The room falls silent. Ford nods to himself and gets the impression that Stan is nodding, too. 

“But with the two of you- learning about anomalies and the supernatural- I feel like I belong. My intellect, my tastes, my- general eccentricities-”

“Don’t knock those. They’re a part of your charm, makes you stand out from the other wahoos, Fidds.”

Fiddleford chuckles. “Exactly. You find them...charming. I don’t even remember the last time someone called me charming.”

“What? No.”

“It’s true,” Fiddleford murmurs. “And that’s why, something like loving your twin brother? It’s just something about you that’s different. But it doesn’t have to be in a bad way. It can be something special between the two of you.”

“...”

“You don’t have to answer right away. Just think about it.” 

Stan doesn’t answer. Ford’s wouldn’t have an answer either. In fact, he’s without words. He’s just been given a lot to mull over. 

In the meantime, Fidleford chatters on about inconsequential things, deliberately filling the silence with words. Eventually, Stan starts participating, but only enough so that he’s making sure Fiddleford isn’t talking by himself. He’s still clearly preoccupied with his thoughts. 

Time passes and the nurse pulls Fiddleford away because visiting hours are over. 

“Oh, is it that late already? And Ford didn’t even come back yet. He must have fallen asleep. Don’t you worry Stan, I’ll bring him back in the morning.”

“I’m more worried about you, Fidds. How are you going to get any sleep? There’s no doubt he’ll be hogging the bed.”

Ford’s face twists. That’s really Stan’s habit, not his own. 

Fiddleford chuckles, though, which he supposes was Stan’s intention. “Sure, sure. And don’t you worry, I won’t share the bed with him.”

Stan grunts, in affirmation or in displeasure at the thought of being teased, Ford doesn’t know. 

Then there’s the sound of the door being shut and silence. Ford moves, but the ceiling beneath him shudders ominously. He doesn’t want to scare Stan (nor does he want to reveal that he’s been hiding above him this whole time). For now, he’ll wait until he won’t get caught.

The lights dim and the hallway goes dark as the nurses call ‘lights out’. 

Stan shuffles around, but doesn’t really do much from what Ford can tell. That’s to be expected, the man just woke up and needs his rest. But surprisingly, Stan doesn’t fall asleep. He doesn’t hear the telltale heavy breaths of the man’s breathing opening up, nor any snoring. 

“I’ll just try and get some sleep, I guess,” Stan grumbles, clearly bored. 

He moves around some more, the bed squeaking and the sheets rustling, but that soon stops. Stan’s breathing slows and turns steady. Ford listens, waiting to make sure Stan has fallen asleep. 

Ford removes a tile from the ceiling and silently drops into the room. He stalks around, notes the few small changes here and there, and then goes to check Stan’s paperwork. ‘After regaining consciousness, etc, etc, expected to make a full recovery’. 

Good. 

Ford then walks around to the side of the bed, taking in Stan’s condition-

And pauses. 

Stan’s breathing is exceptionally even. Sure, it’s loud, obnoxious, and nasally, but it’s also perfect in rhythm. Inhale, then exhale. Inhale, then exhale. Ford would almost think that Stan is...faking sleep. 

Ford is about to do something drastic, maybe shake the man awake and ask why he’s purposefully worrying him, when he realizes what an opportunity this is. So Ford pretends that nothing’s wrong and pulls a chair up so that he can settle next to Stan. 

Then he starts to speak. 

\-----

“Oh, Stan. I can’t believe I let this happen to you.”

Stan’s about to sit up, then and there, but something tells him to stay put. 

When he had woken up again, he had been pleasantly surprised that there was someone by his side. To find out that that person was Fiddleford was a little bit of a dissapointment, but it was still pretty special all the same. He hasn’t had anyone other than Ford by his bedside in awhile. And then to hear that Ford had been by his bedside the whole time? He’s glad that Fidds knocked some sense into him because he isn’t sure how he would have reacted. Ford will come back to him eventually. Hopefully. 

But even if the man did come back, he’s not sure how to react. 

He had been fading pretty hard in the end, but he had thought he heard his brother-

No, it’s not possible. There’s no way he heard correctly. He would rather pretend that it didn’t happen, in the case that it didn’t happen. 

But when Stan thinks about it, he starts turning the idea over and over again in his mind. Did he hear correctly? Did he hear incorrectly?

Then having Fiddleford  _ point it out _ (and wasn’t that a punch in the nuts, having someone else say it aloud, the feelings that Stan always hid) and tell him he heard correctly- 

It’s too much. 

Especially when he knows that Ford is in the ceiling. Oh, maybe Stan didn’t realize right away, but after one of the tiles rattled too many times, Stan caught on real quick. It didn’t stop him from talking to Fiddleford about his situation (god, he’s never been able to just talk to someone about it and he didn’t want to lose his chance) and he can’t be too sure that it isn’t just his paranoia. 

So he tries to ignore it and when the lights go off, he lets Ford have the chance to come out by announcing the fact he’s trying to sleep. And then pretends to sleep. 

Apparently, it’s not paranoia and Ford drops out of the ceiling only minutes later (dramatic little shit that he is). 

Stan continues to faux snore (even playing it up a little bit) as his twin circles around the bed, nosing his way through everything. The thought makes him want to grin so strongly he’s not sure at first if he succeeded in keeping his poker face. Considering that Ford hasn’t faltered in his measured steps, Stan concludes he’s fine.

When Ford decides to settle next to his bedside and watch him sleep, Stan is wondering if he should keep the facade up. It’s becoming more trouble than it’s worth. Maybe he should just “wake up”, smack Ford over the head, and just try to keep things the way they are. 

A voice in his head, sounding suspiciously like Fidds, tells him to “stop being a yellow-belly”.

But before he can decide, his twin starts to speak: 

“Oh, Stan. I can’t believe I let this happen to you,” Ford says with an anguished sigh. 

Stan hopes Ford is just being dramatic, as opposed to actually feeling guilty. A guilty Ford was not a healthy Ford. And since Stan wasn’t in the best shape, there was no way that he could bully Ford into not keeling over. 

Ford lets out another gusty sigh. (Okay, good. Definitely being dramatic.)

“It’s all my fault,” Ford continues. “I shouldn’t let you keep taking the hits for me all the time. I’m competent enough on my own. There was no need for you to get hurt.”

Ouch. Arrogant much? It’s not like Ford would have been in the greatest shape either if he got hit by that ghost. 

“But-” Ford hesitates, “I’ve always liked being protected by you. It’s always such a relief to know you’re always watching my back.”

Oh. That was- he was glad to hear that. 

“The truth is, I’ve always appreciated having you by my side. Well, I mean, that’s too formal. It’s more than appreciated- it feels natural to have you by my side. No- that can’t quite convey the strength of the emotion- It’s only  _ right  _ to have you by my side. Anything else feels wrong.”

That’s- it’s the same for him. 

“Just the thought of not being with you, well, I couldn’t imagine it. I don’t want to imagine it.”

It was like Ford was reading Stan’s damn mind. 

“Because… because the truth is Stan… You should know…”

Ford inhales dramatically. 

Wait. 

Maybe a little  _ too  _ dramatically. 

Is...is he performing for him?

Ford lets out another (way too over-the-top) sigh and that’s when Stan knows. He sits up abruptly.

“You know I’m awake!”

“-That I’m in love with you.”

They both stare at each other. 

\-----

Ford can feel his face turning red. So much for confessing while he knew Stan was pretending to sleep so he could see Stan’s reaction. Maybe he should just-

Stan grabs his arm. 

The grip is weak, Ford could break out of it, but he doesn’t want to. 

Stan was counting on that. 

It’s their usual pattern to avoid anything serious, but at this point they can’t hide their feelings any longer. That’s why for once, Stan reaches out and Ford stays. 

“Let’s talk about it,” is what falls out of Stan’s mouth. 

Ford should be incredulous, hell, Stan can’t believe he’s actually said it, after years of dancing around the subject, but instead Ford says, “But we’ve never talked about it.” 

And it’s true. This has been building up for quite some time between them. They’ve shared everything from one-armed hugs to beds. They’ve protected each other from the police to death. And they’ve toed the line of what was acceptable between siblings to romantic partners. It’s time they’ve cleared the air. 

“We should.” Stan says, firmly. 

Ford waits for Stan to continue, but he doesn’t. 

“Well,” Ford prompts. “What’s your answer then?”

“I know,” Stan says.

At first Ford doesn’t get it, but then he lets out an exasperated sigh when Stan cracks and can’t help but let out a chuckle. 

“Don’t desecrate Star Wars with your bullshit,” Ford growls. 

“I couldn’t help it,” Stan says with a shake of his head and a grin. “Riling you up is one of my favorite things. I love your reactions.” 

The wording almost makes Stan’s smile falter. Even saying the word makes Stan nervous. Ford also jolts at the word and it's that reaction that makes Stan say, “I’m in love with you, too.”

Ford knows that intellectually. But knowing and hearing it are very different things. Ford is struck speechless, unable to think of a reply. Stan nervously licks his lips. 

Huh. That lick, that nervous tic. The only reason why Ford knows it’s a nervous habit is because he knows Stan so well. Because he’s always watched Stan closely, more than he probably should. 

Ford flexes the fingers of his captured arm. Stan’s eyes dart down to watch the motion, knowing that Ford is searching for words. 

Ford sees how Stan catches the movement. 

His hand moves before his brain can think about the implications of the movement, and Ford breaks the loose grip around his wrist. Stan is too slow, too weak to react. But Ford isn’t running away. He’s turning his hand to grip Stan’s, gently slipping his fingers between his twin’s. 

Stan's eyes keep flicking back and forth between Ford’s own and their interlocked hands. 

“So, we’re actually doing this,” Stan says, a touch breathless. 

“Yes, yes, I suppose we are,” Ford says, just as nervous. 

Stan grins and Ford’s lips are lifting too. 

Click. 

Ford and Stan yank their hands away. Shit, are they too loud? Was it a nurse? Even if it was a janitor, it wouldn’t do for the two of them to be discovered together. 

Especially now that the two of them were- ahem. Together. 

Stan moves, pretending to be asleep. He tries to calm his breathing and his beating heart. Hopefully Ford will hide in the ceiling or at least replace the tile. He’s not sure he wants to be kicked out so quickly and back to their newly changed lives. But Ford doesn’t move like he expects. Instead Ford looks around for the source of the noise. Gritting his teeth, Stan does his best to stay still. Better for only one of them to get in trouble. 

Tap tap. 

The noise is so soft that Ford almost thinks that he’s hearing medical equipment, but when it persists and he can tell that the sound isn’t coming from the hallway, Ford’s curiosity gets the better of him. Instead hiding in the ceiling he moves towards the source of the noise - the window. 

As he gets closer he realizes that there’s a person outside tapping at the glass. It’s Fiddleford. 

Ford is quick to unlatch the lock. 

“Thanks,” Fiddleford almost falls into the room and Ford is quick to grab him.

“Fidds?” Stan sits up. “What are you doing here?” 

“Silly, I’m here to keep you company,” Fiddleford whispers. “You didn’t think I would leave you alone, did you?”

Stan can't help but feel very flattered at that. 

Ford smiles at the fact that someone else cares so much about his brother. (Although maybe he’s feeling a pang of- something. Surely not jealousy.)

“Of course I couldn’t,” Fiddleford says, agreeing with his previous question on Stan’s behalf, and starts pulling stuff out of his pockets. “Here’s some coffee, Ford.”

Oh. Ford automatically takes the coffee. It’s just a small cup, but it's still warm, and Ford imagines it must have been difficult to carry up. It’s just the way he likes it, black, hot, and as thick as tar. 

“Sweet, you got me toffee peanuts,” Stan says, making grabby hands for them. Damn, Fiddleford knew them pretty well for only being around them for a short period of time. 

“I figure you could benefit from the sugar and protein. Eat them slowly though,” he says. 

He brings another chair so he can sit next to Stan and eat his own comfort food which turns out to be-

A can of beans. 

“Really?” 

“Yes, it’s a perfectly good source of protein and fiber!”

And as the three of them whisper to each other, Stan and Ford can’t help but think that this feels natural too. Although Fiddleford interrupted the two of them, it doesn’t feel like an issue, but a nice change of pace. The hard part is over. They can talk later. For now, they can keep each other company. 

\-----

Stan manages to stay awake just long enough to finish his snack before exhaustion claims him. Ford and Fiddleford clean up after him and keep him company, although they accidentally fall asleep as well. Lucky for them, they wake up before a nurse can check up on Stan, and manage to slip away before they are discovered. 

It’s a close call. They both have to scramble into the ceiling and Stan has to feign a coughing fit so they wouldn’t be seen. But a few hours later they both come back during visiting hours with a hot meal for Stan. 

Stan looks more lively after some more sleep and a good meal in him, and Fiddleford is happy to see that the strain in his shoulders from the night before is gone. 

However, Fiddleford notes that the reason behind that may be less about Stan’s recovering health, and more about whatever conversation the two twins had shared. The both of them are all soft smiles and gentle touches. Fiddleford almost feels like he’s intruding. But whenever he considers giving the two some more space, Stan will have a joke ready for him, and Ford will have science to talk about, and he gets dragged back into the conversation. 

But in the back of his mind, Fiddleford can feel that the time he has with them is limited. 

They’ve finished their job and they don’t need him anymore. There’s no reason for them to stay and Fiddleford is sure that they’ll want some time to themselves. 

He’ll just enjoy what time he has left with them. 

It comes to an end more abruptly than he thought, when as soon as Stan is able, they sneak out of the hospital in the middle of the night. They have to run across the grass to avoid being seen and all three of them are holding in laughter after they jump the wall. 

They’re still laughing by the time that they make it to the Stan Mobile, although Fiddleford stops laughing when he sees that the car is packed and ready to go. 

Oh. 

That’s right. It was probably within their plans to leave (especially after skipping out on the hospital bill). Stan and Ford are still laughing even as they check the car to make sure it’s ready to go. 

Fiddleford tries to bring himself to laugh too, although all he manages is a rather awkward huff. “I guess this is where we part then?” He asks. 

He should smile, he really should. He would normally cry during goodbyes, but he thinks he’ll break down if he lets himself cry. He immediately wants to sniffle. Oh god. 

He’s so busy holding back tears that he doesn’t notice the conspiratorial look Stan and Ford share. 

“Hey Fidds…” Stan rubs the back of his neck. “If you’re up for it, um, then did you want to join us?”

“What?” 

Stan nervously chuckles. “Well, uh, you know, the whole job thing didn’t work out, and I doubt you’re ever going to get a chance to be that successful ever again-”

“What Stan means,” Ford interrupts. “Is that we enjoy your company and we thought it would be a waste for you to squander your impressive intellect on banal research when you could join us on quests for anomalies-”

“What  _ we _ mean,” Stan cuts in. “Is that you’re our friend, Fidds. And it would be fun to have you around.”

“Yes, that too.”

“So? Waddya say?” 

The two of them look at him expectantly. Fiddleford looks back and forth between the two of them wondering if this is some sort of pity offer, but it seems like they’re totally sincere. He sniffs again and he can feel his eyes water. But they’re happy tears. 

“I would love to join you guys,” Fiddelford chokes out, his voice wavering under the strength of his emotions. He’s grinning though, even as he starts crying. 

Stan and Ford grin at him too. 

“Then come on! I grabbed your stuff just in case, because we’re ditching this popsicle stand,” Stan says and quickly starts up the car. 

Ford herds him in quickly, and Fiddleford is barely in his seat before they’re rocketing out of the parking lot. He flies sideways at a sharp turn and lands on top of his stuff all thrown in the back. It makes him smile even wider.

Fiddleford looks around. They’re flying out of the city now and get onto the highway. It’s not much later that they’re surrounded by darkness. After the whole ghost debacle, just being in the dark, let alone outside in the middle of the night, would have filled Fiddleford with dread. But the sight of Stan and Ford in front of him eases that fear. 

His heartbeat quickens, not out of fear, but excitement. With them, it’s always an adventure and a half. 

“So where are we heading now?” Fiddleford asks. 

Stan and Ford talk at the same time:

“To the ocean, for mermaids.” 

“To the forest, to find Mothman.” 

They pause, throwing each other irritated looks before trying again, but with the same effect:

“There’s rumors of a golden goose floating around.” 

“I wouldn’t mind checking out a recent anomaly involving intelligent invertebrates.”

Stan grumbles, while Ford sighs. 

This sounds like a normal argument for them.

“This is a perfect job for you, Fidds,” Stan declares. 

“What? Me?” 

“Yes,” Ford agrees. “Stan and I often cannot agree on which anomaly to study next. So we often use a game of chance-”

“We throw a dart at a map, don’t dress it up, Ford.”

“-To decide our fate. Because this is your first anomaly with us, so why don’t you choose? Here’s a list of reputable anomalies we’ve kept an eye on.”

And without any preamble, Fiddleford is handed a list and a map to go with it. “Gosh, this is a lot of pressure,” he mumbles aloud, but the twins make encouraging noises, so Fiddleford goes along with it. 

He looked through the list which contained quite a few anomalies: a town with werewolf sightings, a rumoured disappearing eatery, a ghost town, a haunted mine, the list went on and on. He flipped through each one, checking the location and theme. 

He wanted something that might hold interest for all of them and one that wasn’t too far away. Something with a small town nearby, not too small, but not too big either. Someplace interesting sounding, but not too dangerous…

And then he found it. 

“An area with increased anomalies, potentially due to gravity fluctuations in the area,” Fiddleford reads aloud. That sounded interesting and seemed to have a lot of anomalies nearby. 

“Let me take a look,” Ford says, and he takes the map and the list. “You’re right, there does seem to be a substantially increased amount of anomalies in this area. Mutated wildlife, sighting of odd creatures, and caves filled with indescribable ancient art...”

“Hey, pass it over,” Stan says, and Ford holds up the list and map for Stan to read while driving. “Oh hey, nice there’s a small town nearby we can lay low in. Probably too podunk to have an APB out for us, and that way we don’t have to camp out in the car. Not too far of a drive either. Nice choice, Fidds.”

“I agree, Fiddleford,” Ford chimes in. 

“Aw shucks,” Fiddleford waves away the compliment. “Then we’re good with our next destination?”

“Absolutely!” “Let’s do it!” 

“Whoops!” Stan says, before pulling a 180 on the road, shaking the passengers around like a can of sardines. “Gotta head north, right?” 

“That’s right. Up north is where our next adventure is: Gravity Falls.” 

**Author's Note:**

> caliowl - I hope people enjoyed our story!
> 
> nightfoliage - Took us awhile to finish, but it's finally done! Haha, hopefully it's only one of the first joint fics that we write. For me, this fic took a lot of inspiration from the Supernatural tv show, but with Gravity Falls influence.


End file.
